Free Grand National by John R. Tunis

brisk words, followed by a sharp knock on his door.
    “Mr. Cobb, sir. Your stable lad wants you.”
    Alarmed, because he knew there were colds running through the stables, he jumped up and threw open the door. There stood Ginger, his stable lad, swathed in an enormous muffler of wool, his ears pink with cold.
    “Good evening, sir. Mr. Robinson’s compliments, and he’s just heard the Worcester races have been cancelled. Ground too hard for racing.”
    Jack, disturbed, yet relieved, gave him half a crown. After the door closed, he listened to the sound of Ginger’s ancient bike clanking down the lane in the sharp evening air.
    “No Worcester. Ground too hard,” he scribbled at the bottom of his letter to Bingham. He had no heart for details.

Eleven
    E VENTUALLY Q UICKSILVER WAS handicapped for the Grand National, and Robinson continued to enter him in preparatory races whenever the timing was right. Toward the end of February, Chester Robinson, George Atherton, and Jack Cobb went off to Sandown Park, a racetrack southeast of London. Quicksilver was giving away nine pounds, and some first-class horses were running in the three-mile race.
    Here and there a crocus peeped through the soil, and Chester at the wheel of the Rover was in the best of spirits. On the way up, Jack proffered some remarks in general about horses.
    “Horses, I’ve always found, want to please and love attention. They thrive on routine and recognize a person by sound, voice, or smell.”
    Atherton, however, didn’t seem to be paying the slightest attention, and Jack began to wonder whether he had heard him. “Do you agree, Atherton?”
    Atherton, as though awakened from sleep, instantly aroused himself. “Yes, surely. When a horse becomes sensitive to signals from one rider, he will not respond equally well for another.”
    “That’s just it,” replied Jack. But he noticed that Atherton lapsed back into silence again.
    Shortly after lunch, at which Atherton ate only a piece of toast and drank only a glass of milk, he left for the jockeys’ room to change. Jack and Chester sauntered out to the small grandstand. Beside the rail Jack immediately noticed Iris Hunting in deep conversation with a tall, well-dressed man.
    “Jack!” He stopped. She never had used his first name before. “Do come here a moment, please,” she said, moving toward him. “There’s someone I want you to meet.” As he turned and reached her side, she whispered, “Colonel Pomeroy, the racing correspondent of the Times. He writes under the name of Audax.”
    A distinct feeling of pleasure came over him as she took his arm and led him back. Her felt hat on one side of her head was smart, and she wore a new coat that also suited her. Jack tried to make conversation. “Your boy seems to have been doing very well for himself this past month.”
    She accepted his congratulations with a slight inclination of her head. “Not too badly, I feel. He’s still as keen as ever. Colonel Pomeroy, this is Mr. Cobb, the American who owns Quicksilver, the horse we were talking about in the third. You’ll like him. He’s a quiet American.”
    The tall man in the Guard’s overcoat and the derby held out his hand. “Howjado,” he said. Jack found the extended hand rather limp, but the man was genial. “Likely horse you have there, Mr. Cobb. Saw him run a fine race. Where was it? Bognor, I think, last month.”
    Pleased despite himself, Jack smiled and replied, “I owe a great deal to Chester Robinson, and a lot more to Iris Hunting here. She brought the horse round after a bad tendon, and now he seems as good as ever.”
    The man nodded with enthusiasm. “She’s unique, isn’t she? If I may say so, you were extremely fortunate to have your horse fall into such good hands.” He turned to Iris. “Is your boy riding this afternoon?”
    “Yes, he’s on a horse from Greystone Stables, rather an old mare who has speed but has never lived up to her possibilities.”
    “Ah, that