But you didn’t get my point. These three yearlings are from Spain.”

“What’s so special about that?” Alec wanted to know.

“Just that I never thought of it as horse racin’ country,” Henry answered. “I don’t think I’m alone, either. That’s the land of the pure-bred fighting bull, not the pure-bred race horse. Wonder how John Hudson ever got mixed up with that consignment?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Alec quipped. “The magazine says they’re at his farm and that’s just over in Westbury. It’s Sunday and he’ll be home. So will the yearlings. Maybe they’re a better lot than you think they are. Why don’t you find out?”

“Got better things to do than that,” Henry grumbled.

“Such as griping about weights and handicappers, or going home?” Alec asked, smiling. “It’d do you good to get away for a little while. Also, our business is selling horses as well as racing them. Go see what our competition is like.”

“Hummph,” Henry grunted. “Horses from Spain aren’t goin’ to worry the Black’s colts none. Still, I can’t understand why John Hudson of all good agents should—”

“Get goin’, Henry. You know you’d like to see them,” Alec prodded.

“Not unless you come along too. You need a breather same as I do. You haven’t left this barn since yesterday.”

“Sure I’d go, but what about him?” Alec asked, nodding in the direction of the Black’s stall.

“We’ll feed him an’ lock up. Slim will keep an eye on him. Another horse won’t bother Slim none.”

Alec nodded thoughtfully. “It won’t take long to get over there and back. Okay, Henry.”

A short while later Hopeful Farm’s small van, driven by Henry, rocked wildly down a dirt lane.

“I’m sure glad you don’t drive this way with horses in the back,” Alec commented.

“Of course not,” Henry growled. “What do you take me for—a hack?” He stepped harder on the accelerator.

The low barns of John Hudson’s farm suddenly appeared around a bend in the lane and Henry slowed down. “Got to be careful now,” he said. “Don’t want to scare any young horses.”

“There are three out in that paddock just beyond,” Alec said, squinting in the bright glare of the setting sun. “Can’t be sure, but they look like yearlings from here.”

“I’m sure they are,” Henry said. “John’s cleared his barns, gettin’ ready for the young stock he’ll take to the Sales. Those yearlings must be the ones from Spain. A couple minutes now and we’ll get a good look at them.”

Slower and slower turned the wheels of the van. The road was empty and there was a peaceful late-Sunday quietness to John Hudson’s farm.