Each August when I see the field come pounding down the stretch, I like to remember that America originated harness racing. Horse racing may be the sport of kings, but harness racing belongs to the American people. To England the Thoroughbred, to France the Percheron, to America the Trotter.
And I like knowing that America owes her trotting breed to a bearded countryman who saw greatness in an awkward colt whose dam was a cripple and whose sire was mule-eared and ugly. Nearly all trotters today owe their pure gait and pluck to the blood of Rysdyk’s Hambletonian.
I hope your Rosalind will race in the Hambletonian. Whether she wins or not, I’d like to see her pay this tribute to One Man’s Horse.
And now, Gib, the book is yours. To keep for your own. I’m quite sure my grandfather would be glad it now belongs to someone with staying power and gameness not unlike the son of Old Abdallah.
Doc Mills
Twenty
GIBSON looked at the letter a long time before he folded it and slid it into its pocket. He closed the book gently, turned the key and left it in the lock. He got up then and put on his bathrobe and slippers. The other boys were still asleep. Leaving the book on Beaver’s table, he tiptoed out of the room.
At the east end of the cottage, past the warming kitchen and the telephone booth, was a sunroom where visitors could wait while a patient finished his bath or nap. Now there was no one in the room. Only wicker chairs and a table, and ivy plants outgrowing their pots. Green window shades were partly drawn, leaving a strip of brightness across the floor. Gibson paced up and down within it, being careful not to step on the line at the edge of the sun. It reminded him of the way he hopped over the cracks in the sidewalk when he was little. With the book ended he felt as young as that. Young and alone and suddenly bereft.
“What is it I want?” he asked himself as he padded duck-footed up and down, knotting and unknotting his belt. His voice gave no answer, but he knew what was the matter. It was the terrible longing in him. The longing to see his own horse, to be to her what Rysdyk had been to Hambletonian, to hold the reins over her and to know she knew who it was telegraphing to her. It was no longer enough to live on another man’s dreams. No longer enough to live on the border of his own.
“Oh, here you are, Gib!” It was Tante. “I’ve been hunting all over the place for you. Here are two registered packages. They both came special delivery. Look legal and important, don’t they?” She handed Gibson two brown envelopes with big blotches of red sealing wax along the flaps. Then taking a pencil from the twist of hair on top of her head, she pointed to her open receipt book. “Sign here, please.”
She started to leave, then came back. “I’m an early bird, too,” she winked. “I’ll not tell that I found you up before breakfast.”
Alone again, Gibson looked at the envelopes. They were both addressed in his father’s hand and both postmarked the same day but at different hours. He would open the earlier one first.
A strange excitement seized him as he broke the seal and took out a parchment-like paper. He spread it on the table between fingertips that began to tremble. It was—at long last—Rosalind’s certificate! He remembered seeing others like it hanging in the polished offices of big horse owners. But there they were just something in a frame. Unexciting. Like a banked fire instead of a blazing one.
He read in a whisper the important words.
ROSALIND, bay mare, bred by BENJAMIN FRANKLIN WHITE; passed to GIBSON B. WHITE.
The letters stood out so sharply he half expected them to be raised, like letters chiseled on stone. His finger traced them.
“This is to certify,” the words marched on, “that ROSALIND has been duly registered in the American Trotting Register and her pedigree therein can be traced.”
Gibson held the document at arm’s length. It was the most exciting piece of paper he had ever looked at. In the upper left a symbol of a horse in full trot almost flew off the page; in the lower left a red seal shone like a small sun. And all around the margin, as if to box in the wonder and excitement, was a curlicue of green like some old, old frame. And the letters at the top of the page looked old, too, like the chapter titles in One Man’s Horse.
Gingerly he laid the document down and turned now to the second envelope. Within it were two papers, one folded like a road map. A brief note was attached.
Dear Gib,
Rosalind’s pedigree at last! It’d take a piece of paper five feet square to hold all of the families in her ancestry, so this isn’t as extended as it could be. But even so, your mother and I’ve been burning a lot of midnight oil to get it done. So many letters had to be written, checking and double checking.
Rosalind’s pedigree is yours to keep. The other paper is invaluable and has been loaned to me by my friend Dick Miller of Orange County. We used to picnic on his hilltop when you were a small boy. Remember? Mrs. Miller always made gingerbread for you.
Yours,
Dad
P.S. Rosalind is training on. We think she’ll live up to the pride of her birth.
Gibson unfolded the pedigree. And there, in his mother’s best handwriting, was Rosalind’s family tree, with so many roots it took his breath.
He began reading the names, smiling to himself, yet almost afraid to smile. Suppose the names did not build up to the one name! “Rosalind by Scotland,” he began, “he by Peter Scott, he by Peter the Great.” Suddenly he stopped, holding his forefinger on Peter the Great. His eye sneaked on ahead and now his voice was catching up. “Peter the Great by Pilot Medium, he by Happy Medium, he by—Rysdyk’s Hambletonian!”
There it was! Rosalind a direct descendant!
A direct descendant of Rysdyk’s Hambletonian! For a horse, it was like coming over on the Mayflower!
This was too good to keep. Even Mike and Beaver and Grubber would be excited about it. He started to leave, folding the pedigree, returning it to its envelope, then saw the other paper his father had mentioned. It was littler and older looking, fuzzed up by age.
With a sigh he took it out. This had to be an anti-climax. One day’s mail could not possibly hold more excitement. But as his eye caught the heading, his heart stood still. Emblazoned across the sheet was the pedigree of Hambletonian himself!
HAMBLETONIAN
by
ABDALLAH
Pedigree: Hambletonian was sired by Old Abdallah, he by Mambrino, he by Imported Messenger. His dam was the Charles Kent Mare by Imported Bellfounder, granddam old One Eye, by Bishop’s Hambletonian, and he by Imported Messenger, and his dam also by Imported Messenger.
Gibson read the names again. They rang in his ears, flashed pictures in his mind. Messenger charging down the gangplank with grooms swinging from his lead ropes like monkeys on a vine; a limping mare pulling a butcher’s cart; a big-going colt flying around the Union Course against wind and time.
Old Abdallah. Bishop’s Hambletonian. The Kent Mare. Messenger. He mouthed the names. He was better than Aladdin! He didn’t need a magic lamp. He could rub his tongue over the words and the pictures came. Just like that.
With quick, careful fingers he returned each document to its envelope. Then he flew down the hall, slippers flapping.
“Fellows,” he shouted, “Wake up! Listen to this. Rosalind was by Scotland, he by Peter Scott, he by Peter the Great. Peter the Great by Pilot Medium, he by Happy Medium, he by Rysdyk’s Hambletonian!”
“Sounds like the begats in the Bible,” said Mike, turning over in bed and reaching for an orange.
“Looks like your filly could be a D. A. R.,” Beaver yawned.
“For a horse she could! Her forefathers came over with Messenger. It’s like landing with the Pilgrims. Why, she’s as American as Priscilla and John Alden. I can go on with her pedigree on her dam’s side, too.”
“Oh—no!” Mike put in. “Here, catch.” He threw an orange at Gibson. Gibson caught it but did not eat. He was busy at his bulletin board, rearranging all the pictures to make room.
Twenty-One
THE hours flowed over the little cottage in the Cumberlands in torrents and in dribbles. Eat. Sleep. Footsteps coming. Footsteps going. Games by lamplight. Then alone in bed in the dark. And each heart pinching, wondering who would be the first to strike out for home.
The days fell away, and the months. A year wore itself out. And now Gibson’s letters from his father were shorter but the words bigger.
FROM LEXINGTON, JUNE 1
Rosalind and I are starting out on the Grand Circuit. Nobody very high on her now but her owner and trainer.
FROM CLEVELAND, JUNE 20
Rosalind’s got it! Got everything we ever thought she had. Maybe more. She just won the Rainy Day Sweepstakes. Never skipped a beat.
FROM GOSHEN, JULY 5
Rosalind did it again! Took the Good Time Stake for two-year-olds. Finished flying.
FROM LEXINGTON, OCTOBER 10
Rosalind just set a new record in the Junior Kentucky Futurity. Chalked up the fastest quarter and half mile for her age. Her competition was Ed Lasater, but she led all the way home. Time 2:03.
As Rosalind improved, Gibson improved. Each letter brought a dosage of strength with it.
“You’ll be lighting out soon,” Mike predicted. “I can tell by your look when you come in from walking about the grounds. I’ve seen it before.”
“Yeh,” Beaver said. “I’ve seen it, too. A contented look like an old moo cow who knows where her next meal is coming from.”
Grubber nodded. “I better start making him a caboose to take along for his grandchildren.”
“And I better finish that drawing of Rosalind,” Mike put in. “Some day, we’ll read in the papers about the famous young driver winning with Rosalind. And we’ll say, ‘Shucks, we knew the kid way back when he hadn’t a shirt to his back, only a pair of pajamas.’ ”
Beaver sighed. “Some day they’ll just come in and tell him to clear out. And then the sheets’ll be changed and a new guy’ll come in.”
The predictions came startlingly true. One early spring day without any warning, without any fanfare. Dr. Mills was pacing up and down in the room like a lion in a cage too small.
He stopped suddenly, spinning around to look full at Gibson. “Start packing, boy,” he smiled. “It’s time to leave the nest.”
No one in the room said anything. Beaver’s ruler fell to the floor. A bird landed on the eavestrough and began hopping with wiry feet.
“What?” the voice quavered.
Dr. Mills nodded as if he didn’t trust his own voice.
Now Gibson was out of bed, clutching Dr. Mills’ arm. “For good?”
“For good, if—” Dr. Mills’ laugh was deep but his look earnest, “if you stay well within yourself. If you don’t try to be race horse, polo pony, and hunter all in one.”
Gibson let go the doctor’s arm and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I won’t!” he cried, and the joy in him was so sharp it was like a sense of pain.
“Your father is coming on the noon train. You can leave with him.”
“Dad knows?”
“He knows.”
Gibson just sat there, stunned at the suddenness.
“He doesn’t want to leave, fellows.” Dr. Mills spoke to the other boys. “Likes your company too much.”
Gibson made no move to get up. His eyes went from Dr. Mills to the floor. He shuffled his feet in and out of his slippers. “Something I’ve got to ask,” he stammered. “Something—”
“Want to come out to the sunroom?”
“No, sir. Mike and Beaver and Grubber are my friends. I can take it in front of them. Dr. Mills—?”
“Yes, Gib.”
Gibson couldn’t speak for a little while and when he did, his voice came out thin and stringy. “The Hambletonian race,” he said. “It’s coming up.”
“Yes, I know. August twelfth.”
Dr. Mills waited for the question to come. When Gibson didn’t ask it, he turned to speak quietly to the room in general. “It’s kind of comforting to know other fellows besides myself have problems.” Then he went to Mike’s bed. “Is Rosalind declared in?” he asked, looking at the painting of her.
“Yes, sir.” Gibson followed and stood beside Dr. Mills, looking at the painting too. Looking, but not seeing. “Doc?” his next words came hard spoken. “Could I—that is, could I drive her in the race?”
This time it was Dr. Mills who was straining for the right words, trying to be boy and doctor both. “It all depends, Gib,” he said at last.
“Depends on what?”
“On things so simple they’re hard to do.”
“Just name ’em, Doc.”
“No, Gib. You name them. Two words’ll do it. And no prompting, please, from the audience.”
Gibson relaxed. “Rest?” he asked.
“That’s the first word, Gib. Sleep if you can, every blessed afternoon. But if you can’t sleep, just rest.”
The boy nodded. “Could ‘eat’ be the second word? The feed bag at regular intervals?”
Dr. Mills smiled, remembering back to the day in his office when he had first seen Gibson. “For a second time you’ve written the right prescription.”
“Then you mean—it’s all right with you—if I drive in the Hambletonian? Can I, Doc?”
“Seems to me that’s up to the judgment of her trainer and the strength of her owner. If the trainer and owner agree—”
“You mean—it’s all right with you?”
“Why not?”
Why not! Why not! The words charged the room, filled the room, spilled out the window. Sang themselves to the whole world.
“The final prep for a colt is about four months, isn’t it?” Dr. Mills asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“That should be enough for you, too. Boys are not much slower than colts. See here, Gib, will you pack or do we have to do it for you?”
“I’ll do it!” Now Gibson was alive—stumbling across the room, picking up Beaver’s ruler, handing it to him, opening the closet door, coming out again with his grip.
“Better put on some clothes first, young fellow. And how about saying good-by? I’ll be leaving before you do.”
“Leaving? Where to, Doc?”
“For Canada. Trout fishing. Some of us doctors have chartered a plane. It’s a trim red-and-white craft with a top wing.”
As Gibson shook the big hand held out to him, he couldn’t help noticing the palm and the fingertips. Neither hard nor soft, but like the big pads of a St. Bernard dog that had footed many miles on errands of mercy.
“Good-by, Gib.”
“Good-by—and oh, thanks, Doc.”
Dr. Mills shook hands with Mike and Beaver and Grubber. “When I get back from Canada,” he said to them, “you fellows should be ready to leave.”
At the door he stopped. “And, Gib, I hope to fly down to Goshen for the Hambletonian. Seldom miss it. Last year I saw Greyhound set a record of two-two and a quarter. Your filly will have to go some to beat that.”
Twenty-Two
GIBSON made his hands and legs go from bed to dresser and back again without doing handsprings. He emptied the drawer of pajamas onto the bed. Paisley pajamas. Striped pajamas. Polka dots. He’d seen enough pajamas to last him the rest of his days. He caught himself whistling a gay tune, then thought of the other boys and stopped.
“Hey, Gib, let me pack for you.” It was Beaver talking. “You’re as awkward as a pup in a grab bag.” He pushed Gibson aside. “You tend to your saddlebags and bulletin board. We’ll take care of the rest.”
It took all hands to pack. And something of each boy went into the packing.
“You can have this picture of Rosalind,” Mike offered.
Gibson held it at arm’s length. “It’s good. You’ve got a nice sweaty gleam on her. Thanks, Mike.” Covering it over very carefully with a shirt, he tied it with a pajama string.
“Here’s that caboose for your grandchildren,” Grubber said. “It’s even got a working brake
assembly underneath. I’ll pack it in your bedroom slipper for safety. Gosh,” he added, “if I’d known the size of your slipper, I could have made a whole train for you. Want a few more?”
“Heck, no. I’m not going to have that many grandchildren.”
Beaver stood thinking. “I haven’t anything to give you, Gib. Except . . .” His face lighted with a sudden idea. He rummaged around in his table drawer and came up with a rabbit’s foot. “Except this!” he said, laying the brown-and-white paw in Gibson’s hand.
At last Gibson was ready. Everything done. Saddlebags buckled. Snapshots and documents packed in a shoe box. Clothes bulging in a grip and Mike’s picture on its side, making a lean-to against it.
The room that had been all bustle and stir suddenly went quiet. An emptiness had already come into it. The bulletin board gaped bare like a raw scar on a tree just torn by a storm. The round-faced clock gone, its ticking silenced. Now the quiet. The stiff-faced smiles. The fixed looks. The trying to make talk.
When Mr. White burst into the room, carrying his driving silks over his arm, all four boys looked to him in relief.
“Beaver! Grubber! Mike!” he said with a warming smile for each.
Then he and Gibson were facing each other, the father’s arms held wide to clasp the boy in them. They both made a movement forward, then both stopped. A glance of understanding shuttled between them. Gibson was almost a man, taller now than his father. They shook hands, each telegraphing his message of happiness. The slow years worn away. Everything right at last.
Now the words flew.
“Son! You’ve grown like a stalk of corn. You must be pushing six feet.”
“No, Dad. Only five eleven and a half.”
Mr. White laughed until he had all of the boys laughing with him. “Only five eleven and a half!”
His gaze darted over the room, to the empty bulletin board, to the saddlebags strapped and buckled, to the grip closed and waiting. Carefully he laid his driving silks over the foot of Gibson’s bed. “Our train doesn’t leave for an hour,” he said, settling himself comfortably in a chair.
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