Free The Black Stallion Challenged by Walter Farley Page A

believed, too, that today’s race horses were much improved over the old-time runners Henry was always talking about. They were better trained, faster, and more efficient, just as the sport itself was better. There were automatic starting gates to get the horses away in a line and without delay, film patrols to prevent rough, unscrupulous riding tactics, and safety helmets, to say nothing of modern veterinary surgery, which they were about to witness.
    They came to a stop before a one-story concrete block building which was the veterinary hospital. Henry led the way inside but, Alec noted, his face couldn’t have been paler if he’d been going to his own operation.
    The outer office was heated and a young woman was the only occupant. She glanced up from her typewriter, smiled at Alec and said, “You’re a little late. They’ve already put her up on the operating table. You’d better hurry.”
    “Thanks, Miss Clay. I tried to get here sooner,but …” He paused, glancing at Henry. “This is Henry Dailey,” he added. “Henry, Miss Clay, Dr. Palmer’s secretary.”
    “I know,” she said. “The trainer of the Black couldn’t possibly be a stranger to anyone. You’ve got yourself a wonderful horse, Mr. Dailey.” Her pale blue eyes studied the old man.
    “He’s made up for a lot of disappointments during my life,” Henry returned quietly. He didn’t like the way she seemed to be sizing him up. She was too composed while he was squirming inwardly. He was certain she knew how he felt about being there.
    She smiled, trying to make it easier for him. “Racing is a great game. I meet so many interesting people, each so different in his own way.”
    “I’m sure you do,” Henry said, following Alec toward another door. He tried to return her smile and to appear as casual as she seemed to be about this business of operating on horses. “Having a great horse like the Black makes me really appreciate racing,” he added. “And believe me, Miss, I’m going to do all I can to keep him out of this place.”
    “I hope so,” Miss Clay said quickly. “I do hope you will, Mr. Dailey.”
    The next room was a laboratory, at the moment unoccupied, filled with cases of shining instruments. Alec strode through toward a door leading to a room beyond but Henry held back, his eyes on the instrument cases.
    “Come on,” Alec said impatiently. “Miss Clay said we’re late already.”
    “It must be like operating on a human being,” the old man said uneasily, his face ashen-white. “Maybe we ought not, Alec … I mean, I never did like surgery.”
    Henry tried to meet Alec’s gaze and failed miserably. How could he explain to him that he was plain scared? To him surgery meant these gleaming, sharp instruments and an amphitheater tense with the drama of life and death. It meant a hushed, ominous silence and rubber gloves on a surgeon’s skilled hands. It meant a shining scalpel and spurting blood. He was scared because it was all too easy, at his age, to see himself on an operating table.
    Alec said quietly, “There’s nothing to be frightened about. You’ve been watching too many TV medic shows.”
    “It’s not that,” the old man said. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, ill at ease. “It’s just that I don’t like the atmosphere,” he added a little defiantly.
    “I don’t either, not especially,” Alec said.
    “I’m not so sure about that. You’ve been over here before.” Henry tried to grin and almost succeeded. “You know,” he continued, bidding for more time, “you’re something like another rider I once knew. He’d been in and out of hospitals so often with race injuries that he got to liking the atmosphere and he began going there on his days off. He enjoyed watching the surgeons at work. Finally, they let him put on a white robe and he did everything but operate.”
    “Maybe he missed his calling,” Alec said. “Maybe he’d rather have been a surgeon than a rider. But