The Black Stallion Challenged by Walter Farley Page B

operative equipment had been removed from the table, and now the hydraulic lift lowered the filly to the floor, where she was left to lie quietly and unrestrained in a relaxed hypnotic state.
    The small group began breaking up, speaking to one another in quiet, almost hushed voices as if there was a continued need for silence. Only when the surgeon laughed loudly at something someone said to him did they suddenly start raising their voices. But they kept away from the filly, giving her the room and air she needed.
    “How long before she’ll be up?” Alec asked the anesthetist, having noticed a quick twitching of the filly’s legs.
    “They usually come out of this gas pretty fast,” the man said, putting his equipment away. “Most of them are up within a half-hour. A few take longer.”
    Henry came across the room to stand beside Alec; he said nothing, his eyes on the filly.
    “Do they come out of it quietly or struggling?” Alec asked.
    “Quietly,” the big man answered. “I’ve only seen a few excited ones. That’s another advantage of halothane.”
    Alec turned to Henry, whose face had a sickly pallor. “Shall we wait or do you want to go now?” he asked.
    “I think we ought to go,” Henry answered.
    They were nearing the door when Dr. Palmer stopped them. “Nice to have had you here, Henry,” he said.
    “A good filly, game as they come,” Henry answered. “Too bad about her.”
    “Don’t cross her off so fast,” the veterinarian said. “She could be back in training before the year’s out.”
    “I hope so, Doc,” Henry said sincerely. “I sure do.” He took another few steps toward the door.
    “You come back, hear?” the veterinarian called to him.
    “Yeah, Doc, sure.” Henry left the operating room sure of only one thing. He wasn’t
ever
going back unless he had to. And the only way to make certain ofstaying out of that room was to keep the Black as sound as a dollar. But how sound was that anymore? One couldn’t be sure of anything these days. He rubbed the horse chestnuts that he carried in his pocket for good luck.

F IRST S TART
7
    Henry showed up at the track earlier than usual the following morning. “I’m having the horseshoe man come around,” he told Alec.
    That was enough to let Alec know that during the night Henry had arrived at a decision concerning the Black’s program. New shoes had been put on only two weeks ago and Henry rarely changed plates so soon unless the Black was going to race.
    “What made you change your mind?” he asked. He didn’t want to appear too anxious, just interested—perhaps even a little puzzled—in the hope of drawing Henry out.
    “That 1:37 mile on the grass the other morning,” Henry said quietly.
    “I thought you said it was too fast.”
    “It was. But it was a big move to me; he handled that soft turf perfectly. It convinced me he was ready.”
    “I see,” Alec said, although actually he didn’t. He’d never be able to understand how Henry could be furiousabout something he’d done one day and forget about it completely the next. “When are we going then?” he asked.
    “There’s a mile race on the grass tomorrow, so let’s blow him out this morning for it.”
    “Great!” Alec said, no longer trying to conceal his joy. “How far do I take him?” He could smell the pine tar in the body brace a groom was using a few stalls away.
    “Three-eighths. Take him over the main track, breaking from the gate. He’s been away from it for some time, and it won’t do no harm to have him see it again. Have him look things over now instead of when he has to get out of there fast. Take your time, just walk him in and out, if you think he’s curious. Break him when he’s good and ready.”
    “Okay,” Alec said.
    “Pull him up after an eighth from the gate. Hobbyhorse him until the quarter pole, then let him go again. That’ll blow him out good.”
    “Fine,” Alec said. “You want to saddle up now or wait for the new