“He hasn’t changed a bit. How does he go?”

“The same,” Alec replied, his gaze, too, on the stallion. “Exactly the same.”

“He might be just a little bit heavier.”

“Maybe,” Alec said. “But he could take that off.”

“Yes, I suppose he could,” Jim returned. “He was a fast one, Alec.”

“He still is.”

“Moves nicely, does he?”

“Perfectly.”

Jim Neville was silent for a few moments, then he said, “He’ll get some good colts for you, Alec. Satan is proof of that. I guess you’ll be doing all right.”

Alec nodded. “I hope so, Jim. We’re going to buy the best mares we can get.”

“Fine! Where’s the farm, Alec?”

“Upstate … a hundred miles or so.”

“Cyclone and Sun Raider have been retired to stud, too. But I guess you know that,” Jim added quickly.

“Yes, I do.”

“Remember how the Black whipped them both in the Chicago match race, Alec? Only four years ago, but it seems more like forty. You and Henry sure have come a long way since then.”

“But we couldn’t have done it without your help, Jim,” Alec said gratefully.

The columnist laughed. “I wouldn’t say that, Alec. All I did was to let the public know what you and Henry had to race; the people saw to it that the Black got in the match race. Too bad that was the only time they ever saw him race, though,” he added thoughtfully. “I guess everyone who loves horses regretted that. A pity. A great pity.”

Removing his hat, Jim placed it on the bench beside him, then turned to the field. “Look at him go, Alec,” he said, nodding at the stallion, who had left Napoleon and was galloping down the field. “He certainly has Satan’s action. Or, rather,” he corrected himself, “Satan has his.” He paused and without turning to the boy asked, “You’ve been up on them both, Alec. What do you think?”

“I don’t get you, Jim.”

“Which is the faster?”

“I couldn’t tell you that,” Alec said, rising. “I don’t know.” The Black was coming up the field and Alec started toward the gate, followed closely by Jim Neville.

“The Black could have been at his peak as a three-year-old,” Jim suggested cagily.

“I don’t think so,” Alec replied, going to the fence, where the Black stood awaiting him. He placed his hand on the stallion’s nose and stroked him until the Black snorted at Jim Neville and moved away.

The newspaperman leaned on the wooden rails with Alec. “I don’t suppose you’ve even considered racing him again?” he asked. “Before you retire him, I mean.”

“No.”

“Maybe you should,” Jim suggested. The boy turned to him, but Jim Neville kept his gaze on the stallion and continued, “You’ll be getting a lot of pressure to race him, you know. Once the stories break tomorrow, there won’t be anyone in the country who won’t remember what the Black did in his one and only race here. They’ll want to see him run again. You’ll not have much peace, Alec.”

“I’m not racing him, Jim,” Alec said determinedly. “And I’ll take him away from here as soon as I can.”

For a few minutes Jim Neville was quiet, and his large frame leaned heavily against the rails.