Jim Neville had been Alec’s friend for a long while. It was he who had been responsible for getting the Black into his first and only race in America.

Jim waved to Alec, then leaned on the fence with the others. “How’ve you been, Alec?” he asked.

“All right,” the boy said quietly.

The reporter next to him said, “We figured you were sick. Out in Chicago, Henry Dailey said you weren’t feeling well. That’s why Lenny Sansone was up on Satan.”

“I—I haven’t been feeling too good,” Alec said quickly.

“He’s-a been taking it very easy,” Tony added helpfully.

“But you’ve been doing some riding in the park to keep in trim. Is that it, Alec?” another reporter asked.

“That’s it,” Alec said.

“It makes a good story … you being top jockey, I mean, and then being picked up for racing in a public park,” the reporter added.

“We weren’t racing,” Alec corrected him. “Just galloping a little.”

“Who were you up on?” another asked.

Without hesitation, Alec said, “Napoleon there.”

They all looked at the old gray for several minutes before one of them broke the silence by asking, “He gallops?”

“Sure,” Alec said with feigned lightness.

“He’s-a one fast horse,” Tony added angrily. “Maybe he no look it, but Nappy he’s-a fast all right.”

“Sure, I believe you,” the reporter said. “You can’t go by looks. I know that for sure.”

Jim Neville left the fence, walking a little to the rear of the reporters. “I haven’t been around here in a long while, Alec,” he remarked casually.

The others turned away from Napoleon to look about them; as one, their heads turned in the direction of the barn.

“How much room do you have in there, Alec?” one asked.

“Two stalls,” Alec said. “But Napoleon has the place to himself.”

“Mind if we take a look inside?”

“No … not at all.”

The group walked toward the barn with Alec leading the way.

“It’s funny the way cops can get mixed up,” someone said. “We got hold of the cop who gave you the summons and he said you were up on a black horse … a big black, he said.”

Alec’s lips tightened, and it was Tony who said, “He’s-a color blinded all right. Nappy is no black.”

“He certainly isn’t,” the reporter agreed.

“But the cop said,” another added casually, “that he’d never seen a horse run as fast as this one had gone.”

“Nappy he’s-a fast horse like I tell you,” Tony said, laughing. “Maybe I race him one of these days. Maybe I do.”

Alec said nothing. Now he realized that he had forgotten completely that the reporters could have interviewed the cop before coming here. They were looking for a bigger story than his retirement from racing. And that’s why they wanted to go into the barn. From what the cop had told them they knew it couldn’t have been Napoleon he had ridden in the park. Even now, they might suspect it was the Black! For what other horse could have kept him from riding Satan in Chicago? They knew he hadn’t been sick at all. He had been silly to think he could keep the Black’s identity from them. He had made the critical mistake of taking the Black to the park. Now he had to pay for it.

Alec stepped inside the barn, followed by the reporters. Jim Neville stayed at his side, but the others went directly to the stall the Black had occupied. They took one look at the clean-swept floor and then went on to Napoleon’s stall. After that their gazes swept about the barn.

No sound came from the tack room, but any second the stallion could utter a snort that would betray his presence. Alec felt Jim Neville’s hand upon his arm, but he didn’t turn to him. The reporters had filed their way to the tack room, and already one of them was fingering the lock. Tony was with them, and Alec heard him say, “There’s nothing in there; only harness for Nappy.