Free Grand National by John R. Tunis Page B

gentleman?”
    “I am,” said Chester soberly. “We came from Sussex. Can he be moved tonight?”
    “I shouldn’t think so,” replied the doctor. “He ought to be in a hospital. I understand he has an ulcer, and he’s probably bleeding. In any event, he’s far from a well man.”
    Atherton’s valet, a rather ancient character who always showed up whenever he rode, came into the room. “The track ambulance is here, doctor,” he said in his aged voice.
    “Good. I can get him into the Weybridge Hospital, I think. Just let me go to the phone. If this is what I think it is, he’ll be there at least a month.”
    Jack looked over at Chester across the dissolving circle, as the valet and two grooms came in with the ambulance stretcher. Neither spoke. Chester’s head shook as he followed the stretcher, his concern plainly visible. This man, thought Jack, had risked his life by riding that day. How had he managed to stay on Quicksilver? He felt responsible. And now what? The Cheltenham Gold Cup loomed up ahead. Who was there to ride him? What would happen to Quicksilver at this crucial moment in the long, arduous journey to the National? First the horse, then the jockey.
    At this moment Tony Hunting entered the room, wiping his sweat-stained forehead and standing aside as Atherton was carried out. He looked around the crowd of serious faces before him and came directly up to Jack Cobb.
    “Mr. Cobb, that horse rides like a Bentley. I know because I rode him daily for six weeks. If things go badly for Mr. Atherton and you find yourself in need of a jockey, I do wish you’d consider me. I’d give anything to have a go on him at Cheltenham.”

Twelve
    T HERE WERE FIVE of them in the Robinsons’ living room, all trying to decide on Quicksilver’s jockey: Chester and Jack; Doctor Sanders, who as stable vet was taking part in the discussion; one of Chester’s secretaries, a pleasant-looking English girl; and the head groom. The argument over who should ride Quicksilver at Cheltenham had become acute. Cobb wore a harried look. The head lad sat twisting his cap in his lap and turning it in his hands. Doctor Sanders seemed anxious that everyone realize how much he knew about horses. His black bag was beside him on the floor; atop it was his cloth hat.
    “Suppose I just give him a ring to see whether he’s available,” Chester said.
    The group had been conferring for over an hour and were no nearer a decision than they had been when they began. Chester left the room for several minutes and came back shaking his head. “Isn’t free. He’s promised to Sir Douglas McIntosh.”
    “Bad luck that.”
    “May I make a suggestion, sir?”
    “Certainly, Henderson. Speak up.”
    “What about that lad, Rex Benway? I know Sanders thinks well of him.”
    “You couldn’t do better, Mr. Cobb,” interjected the vet. “’Course, he’s a former stable lad—nothing swell about him—but I’ve found that he invariably comes through in a crisis. Known him now for some time. You might say I started him riding.”
    “I know Benway,” said Chester. “Too inexperienced. But there’s always this man Stevenson.”
    “Stevenson’s free all right. Indeed yes, let out by Waverly Stable last month. He’s got a rotten bad temper. Can’t count on him.”
    “Ah, I didn’t know that,” responded Chester.
    The vet appeared to know everyone in racing circles, and he had a reason that ruled out each man who was brought up except for his own protégé. Indeed, they could end up with nobody, Jack feared. All the best jockeys were either attached to various stables or had been booked by trainers. What a shame Atherton couldn’t ride the horse, Jack reflected. They were in a desperate fix, and it was late to be choosey.
    At last Cobb made a suggestion. “Well now, what about young Hunting?”
    Distaste spread over the vet’s face, and he answered with considerable scorn in his voice. “A boy of twenty-two, twenty-three? Entrust that