Man O'War (11 page)

“The stable talk is that he's as good as he looks,” Feustel said. “He possesses immense speed. With that body and those legs he'll be able to whirl and get away, that's for sure.”

“I took a great fancy to him earlier,” Mr. Riddle said. “But I can't bid, Louis. Mrs. Jeffords told me she's going after him. I won't bid against her.”

Danny saw Mrs. Riddle glance up from her catalog. “Just because she's my niece is no reason not to bid, Sam, if you like him that much,” she told her husband.

Mr. Riddle shook his head adamantly. “No,” he said. “She'll have a hard enough time getting him as is.”

Danny turned his gaze back to the golden colt in the ring. He was close-coupled and short-legged. He'd leave the barrier
fast, just as Feustel had said. But would he be able to stay? Did he have the substance to carry him over a distance race?

It was plain that the buyers thought so as soon as the bidding started. There was a clatter of bids from all sides of the area, and the flashy colt was up to ten thousand dollars in a twinkling. The tempo slowed after that figure was reached, but the auctioneer was not to be denied.

He stopped his singsong chant and looked over the large audience. The area was hushed and he had no intention of breaking the silence. It was the right moment to let them study this colt, perhaps to envision him in the winner's circle, a triumphant champion! There was no doubt that this colt was the darling of the sale, all right. He couldn't be prettier; that helped a lot in selling the ladies present. And he had the conformation to interest the professional horsemen as well. The combination was unbeatable, and the auctioneer had no intention of selling this colt yet.

His roving eyes found Mrs. Jeffords. She wanted that golden chestnut bad and so did a couple of other ladies in the audience, God bless them. He'd concentrate on this feminine rivalry a few moments. He smiled at Mrs. Jeffords, held her gaze a moment, and then, when she refused to increase the bid of ten thousand dollars, went on to Mrs. Riddle.

He would have liked to get her bidding on this colt, too. She and her husband were impressed with him, and they still hadn't bought a colt. But she shook her head, and he decided it was because she wouldn't bid against her niece, Mrs. Jeffords. He went on to the other ladies, his eyes asking for a bid over ten thousand, but none of them responded.

Finally he turned to the men without making any attempt to break the almost reverent silence. One ear was cocked for a sound from the rear of the platform. There was a bidder seated behind him, unseen by most of the audience, who had made
the last bid. The man would go higher if necessary, and it was his job to see that he did.

The auctioneer decided it was time to say something. “Now, folks, you all listen to me,” he told the crowd. “Heah we have what could be the very finest colt in this sale. He was bred in England. He's by Sweeper II out of Zuna by Hamburg. An' if those bloodlines aren't enough to make you all want him, just take a good look at him. You won't find a better-made colt in your lifetime! Yes, sir,
he could be the one
, folks. But I'll let you in on a little secret. No one's goin' to get this heah colt for no ten thousand dollars. He's too much colt for that price. Too many of you folks want him. So you're going to have to open up your wallets. But wait … wait now. Before you do, take another look at this heah colt. Study him; see for yourself there's not goin' to be another like him in this sale.”

That was enough to say for now, the auctioneer decided. Let them look at this colt a few moments more. He had plenty of time and patience. He had said and heard all this before, many times. Maybe this Sweeper colt would prove to be worth ten thousand dollars and a lot more on the racetrack. But the chances were just as good that he wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel. No one could tell much about the racing prospects of a yearling.

The auctioneer watched the golden colt as it moved about the ring with all the fluid grace of a jungle cat. It wasn't up to him to judge if this colt would be the one or not. For all he knew he might have already sold next year's champion for a couple thousand dollars or even less. It had happened often enough before. His job was to get the highest bids he could on each and every yearling. And there was keen competition for this colt. He should be able to get more than ten thousand dollars for him.

“All right, folks,” he said finally. “Heah we go again. We're
goin' to sell this good colt right now an' you all better be on your toes or he'll get away from you. I got ten thousand dollars. I want eleven, eleven. Give me eleven.…” His eyes found Mrs. Jeffords, who was speaking to her husband without turning her head. Then he saw Mr. Jeffords raise five fingers.

“Yeah! I got ten thousand, five hundred dollars. Give me eleven. I want eleven. Give me eleven.…” His cocked ear caught the bid from the man seated behind him.

“Yeah! I got eleven thousand dollars. Give me twelve, twelve. I want twelve.…”

From far in the back, an old lady seated beneath an elm tree nodded her head.

“Yeah! I got twelve thousand dollars. I want thirteen. Give me thirteen, thirteen.…”

His eyes had shifted quickly to Mrs. Jeffords. Now they were on their way, a thousand at a time; with the sky the limit! “Give me thirteen, thirteen, thirteen.…” He waited for her or her husband to nod but he also listened for the voice from behind the platform.

Finally he got the higher bid from Mrs. Jeffords. “
Yeah!
I got thirteen thousand dollars. Give me fourteen, fourteen.…” He turned to the old lady again, but she was through. He listened for the voice behind him, and the bid came just as he'd known it would.

“Yeah! I got fourteen thousand dollars. I want fifteen, fifteen.” He turned back to Mrs. Jeffords.

She was speaking to her husband again. Finally, almost reluctantly, Mr. Jeffords nodded.

“
Yeah!
I got fifteen thousand dollars.” He knew Mr. and Mrs. Jeffords were almost through with the bidding. “I want sixteen, sixteen.” He turned completely around to the man behind him, the only one left who could keep this colt in the
ring. But all he got was a vigorous shake of the head. Still he waited, pleading for a higher bid. “Give me a raise of five hundred dollars then, just five hundred dollars. Don't let him get away from you.”

It was obvious that the man wanted the colt but fifteen thousand dollars had been his limit. He shifted uneasily in his seat and wiped his face with a large handkerchief. When he took it away he nodded, then rose and left his seat. He had finished bidding.

“
Yeah!
” the auctioneer called. “I got fifteen thousand five hundred dollars. I want sixteen, sixteen. Give me sixteen. I want sixteen.” He looked at Mrs. Jeffords to see if she would raise the bid one final time. She had no intention of losing this colt, he knew. She said something to her husband and the raise in bid came. It was only a hundred dollars but it was enough to buy the colt.

“
Yeah!
I got fifteen thousand, six hundred dollars! Are you all done?” His gaze swept around the area, missing no one. “Doesn't anybody else want this grand colt before I sell him?”

The bid was the highest he'd gotten for any colt in the sale, and he was satisfied. He banged his gavel. “Sold to Mr. Jeffords for fifteen thousand, six hundred dollars.” But his eyes and smile were for Mrs. Jeffords, for he knew that the golden colt was really hers.

Danny listened to the auctioneer's gavel fall and he knew the time had come for the Nursery Stud yearlings to be sold. His stomach tightened. He watched Fair Gain being led into the ring. He listened to the rustle of catalog pages and the hum of voices. Fair Gain was considered by many to be the top colt in the Belmont consignment. He would not go cheap.

A few moments later Danny heard the opening bid of five thousand dollars and knew how right he was. Perhaps this colt
would go for an even higher price than the one Mr. and Mrs. Jeffords had bought. His gaze shifted to Mr. Riddle, who was nodding his head at the auctioneer.

The bidding moved swiftly to ten thousand dollars, then Mr. Riddle raised it to eleven thousand.

Danny overheard Louis Feustel say, “Too high for this colt.”

Mr. Riddle answered, “That's my limit. I won't go higher.”

The bidding went on without Mr. Riddle, and finally the last bid was made. The auctioneer brought down the gavel. “Sold to Mr. Widener for fourteen thousand dollars,” he announced.

It was the second highest price of the sale and a good start for the Nursery Stud yearlings. The auctioneer was satisfied with his work. He glanced at the Riddle party, knowing they had intended to buy quite a few yearlings for their new stable. But while Mr. Riddle had been an active bidder, he still hadn't taken a single one from the ring. Perhaps it would be the next colt.

“Mr. Riddle,” he called, “are you sure you can see from way back there?”

“Yes, we can see all right,” Mr. Riddle answered, “but we would like to get a little closer to the front if possible.”

“Come along,” the auctioneer said.

Danny moved forward at the same time, for his colt was next in the ring. He felt as if the ground were breaking away from him and he was falling into a great, black abyss.

The auctioneer watched the boy and the yearling colt step into the ring. For a few seconds he looked more at the boy than at the colt. That was a very strange thing for him to do, he decided. But he thought the boy was sick; his eyes were glazed and he moved as if his legs were made of wood. He
hardly seemed to know where he was or what he was doing. And yet the colt was under control, moving lightly beside him.

The auctioneer shrugged his shoulders, glanced at the hip number on the colt, then at his catalog. “Heah's a good one, folks,” he said, “a real good one by Fair Play out of Mahubah by Rock Sand.”

He studied the colt for the first time, wondering why he seemed to be in such poor sales shape. It was not easy to sell a thin yearling, for bidders were far too suspicious of such a colt. But this one was proud and spirited despite his sales condition. He looked as if he thought he owned the world.

Man o' War.
That was a powerful name for a colt. He liked yearlings with good names. There was something nondescript about referring to a yearling solely by its hip number, which was the usual case. He just might have something here to work on. He just might.

The auctioneer decided not to open the bidding right away. Give the buyers a chance to look at this colt a little longer. He was becoming a bit more impressive as he strode around the ring. If the buyers studied him closely, they might see more than his roughness.

The auctioneer also studied the big colt, looking for the best angle on which to sell this yearling. It appeared to him that Man o' War might well be a horseman's horse. Although he was not as sleek and shining as those that had preceded him, he was beautiful to see to those who knew horseflesh. His stride was free, rangy, and imperative. His head was high and his proportions magnificent.

The colt came to a sudden stop in the center of the ring but did not pull the shank away from the boy's hand. He was interested in the crowd and looked confident, too. His ears were set forward and his nostrils distended as if the better to sniff
the scent of humans. In that moment he was a picture to behold, and it seemed to the auctioneer that every horseman in the crowd would want him. It was a good time to start the bidding.

“Listen heah, folks,” he began, “
this could be the one.
You all know there's no finer breeder in the country than Major Belmont, and this heah colt represents his very best. This is Man o' War, a son of the great Fair Play by Hastings and out of the fine mare Mahubah by Rock Sand. You all know you just can't get better breeding than that.”

He paused a moment, his eyes going over the crowd. Perhaps he shouldn't have opened that way, he decided quickly. Too many of the horsemen present knew that such a mating had already produced Masda, this colt's full sister, and that she was a flighty one for all her blazing speed. It was the Hastings in her. She was too nervous and excitable to make a racehorse, and Belmont had gotten rid of her.

It might be best to concentrate on what the buyers could see in the ring. “Take a good look at this heah colt, folks,” he went on. “You won't find a better-boned individual than this one, no sir. He's strong. He's rugged. He'll take to training and hold his flesh under work. There's no extra fat to take off this heah colt, folks. He's ready to go! Now you all give me what he's worth, heah? Who'll open at five thousand dollars? I want five, five, give me five …”

The singsong chant swept through the area, but there was no response from the buyers. The auctioneer's eyes as well as his voice sought bids from the professional horsemen in the crowd. One by one they shook their heads. Perhaps they were recalling only too well the Hastings blood in this colt. Or perhaps it was his thinness and roughness. The auctioneer did not know.

Finally he found a trainer who held up one finger. Having no choice, he took the bid. “I got one thousand dollars,” he said without enthusiasm. “Give me two, two, two. I want two. Give me two.”

Again he pleaded with the professional horsemen to raise the bid. But he found only a few who showed any particular interest in this colt. The bidding went up a hundred dollars at a time and stopped completely at two thousand dollars. Should he let him go at that price? he wondered. He must have been wrong. Man o' War hadn't proved to be a horseman's horse after all.

He turned to those buyers in the crowd who still might be interested in the colt as a hunter. Sometimes people paid good prices for hunting prospects, and this might be such a case. Mr. Riddle was interested in the colt, and so was Mr. Gerry. He decided to concentrate on them, for he should get more than two thousand dollars for this big colt.