'The what?'
'The American Derby day after tomorrow.'
Karen shook her head. 'Everyone thinks his horse can't win.'
'Bruce hopes he will, but I too believe it's a long shot.'
'I'd bet the winner is the odds-on favourite, Judith Armbruster.'
'We'll see,' said Cathleen.
She primped in front of a mirror. 'What do you think?'
'Gorgeous,' said Karen. 'It makes me happy for you.'
But it made her more miserable than ever for herself.
The morning of the American Derby was warm, but the sun stood high and clear and the temperature rose steadily. By afternoon it was hot. Just what Snapper Garrison had earlier hoped for and even predicted, Bruce Lester reminded himself as he walked into the stable area, accompanied by Karen and his veiled Aunt Minna.
Frontier was in front of his stall, placidly chewing some lumps of sugar as Snapper Garrison kept circling him, carefully supervising the trainer saddling the colt. Garrison watched while the saddle was placed on a cloth over the withers, then secured with a leather cinch belt. As the belt was threaded and tightened through the buckle, he turned to greet Bruce, Karen, and Minna.
'Welcome,' Garrison said. He mopped his brow. 'Perfect day. Couldn't ask for a better one.'
'You wanted it hot,' said Bruce. 'Why?'
Garrison's smile was enigmatic. 'You'll see, boss.'
'How does he ride?' asked Bruce. 'You've been working with him.'
Garrison patted the horse's flank. 'He's fast – too fast at the break,' said Garrison. 'By the time he reaches the mile he begins to wear down.' He grinned. 'I hope to change all that in the Derby.'
Bruce was not optimistic. 'Apparently no one else thinks he has any chance. The odds on Frontier are fifteen to one. The odds on The Picket are three to five. The Picket's an overwhelming favourite.'
'As he should be,' Garrison agreed. 'He's a big, powerful horse.'
A bugle sounded from the dirt track inside the wooden stands of Washington Park.
Snapper Garrison listened, and then put his foot in the stirrup.
'You still think we have a chance?' Bruce grumbled. 'Even though we're fifteen to one?'
Garrison swung his small frame on to the saddle. 'I never heard of an oddsmaker winning a silver cup.'
Minna stepped forward, closer to her nephew. Digging into her purse, she pulled out a wad of tickets. 'I think Frontier is worth a bet. Aida and I took $1,000 out of the bank. I've bet it all on Frontier to win. Here, take these tickets, Bruce. A present from your aunts.'
Reluctantly, Bruce accepted the tickets. 'I wish you hadn't, Aunt Minna. But I certainly appreciate your confidence.'
'I'm betting against Judith Armbruster,' Minna said tartly. Shading her veiled eyes from the sun, she squinted up at Garrison. 'Did I do something foolish, Snapper?'
The jockey grinned down at her. 'Maybe we both did,' he called down. 'I didn't have $1,000, but I did have five hundred. I laid it all on Frontier to win. If I lose, I won't have a roof over my head. You'll have to put me up, Minna.'
As Garrison urged Frontier forward for the parade to the post, Bruce called out, 'Good luck!'
'You three find yourself a place near the finish line,' Garrison called back. 'Just watch for the green and white colours.'
An enormous crowd, 49,500 persons, had jammed into the grandstand of Washington Park and crowded into the infield. The more affluent had come in tallyhos, carriages, buggies, and in their new-fangled automobiles. The less affluent had come too, by foot and by streetcar, and all waited expectantly in the heat for the start of the $25,000 American Derby.
Bruce, at the forefront, had pushed his way through the sea of humanity, closely followed by Karen and Minna.
At last, they'd eased their way to the finish line, pressed against the railing, and turned their gazes a quarter of a mile down to the starting line.
Bruce produced two pairs of cheap binoculars, one pair for Karen and the other for himself. Minna polished the lenses of her opera glasses.
The dozen horses in the race had paraded past the start,
turned to trot towards the webbing to be lined up by the official starter.
Bruce trained his binoculars on the starting line. As usual, the thoroughbreds were all milling about, bumping each other relentlessly, bursting in and out of the webbing as they were patiently brought back to their places. Bruce focused on Frontier, who was standing calmly at the pole position, alongside the inner rail. The competing horses, colts and fillies, continued to mill about in the blazing sun.
Gradually, the horses were lined up perfectly, and the starter could be seen about to spring the webbing, when Bruce saw that Snapper Garrison was raising both hands in protest. Bruce could see him pointing down to one of his boots. Apparently the laces of one of his boots had broken. New laces must be sent for. The assistant starter ran off.
Bruce watched a distressed – or seemingly distressed -Snapper Garrison dismount and casually walk behind the restless horses as the jockeys tried to quiet their nervous mounts. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen minutes, when at last the assistant starter returned with fresh laces for Garrison. Accepting the laces, Garrison took his time threading the new laces into his left boot.
At last Garrison was set. He put a foot on Frontier's stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. Now the other thoroughbreds were out of line again, twisting, turning, bumping into one another under the relentless mid-afternoon sun.
Through his binoculars, Bruce was able to make out a movement on Snapper Garrison's part. In his Number One post position, Garrison had slipped his left foot out of the stirrup, and was resting it on the rail of the infield fence keeping nearly his entire weight off Frontier, while the fractious other mounts perspired under the weight of their riders.
As thousands of spectators strained with expectation, awaiting the send-off of the American Derby, the starter still could not get the field off. Bruce glanced down at his watch. Over
an hour and a half had elapsed since the horses had been led to the webbing. Standing there, watching, Bruce realized that his own legs felt leaden, and he tried to imagine how the legs of the horses must feel by now.
Once more, the starter managed to bring the thoroughbreds into line, when Bruce saw Garrison rise on Frontier and desperately wave to the starter, screaming at him.
Garrison dismounted again, and by his gesture Bruce could see that he was pointing to his saddle girth. His saddle girth had broken and he was obviously demanding a new one. Again, he was off his horse's back, on the ground, while the other jockeys remained on their exhausted horses.
Through his glasses Bruce saw the starter heading for Garrison, confronting him, angrily waving his fist at him. Bruce brought down his binoculars and observed that Minna had lowered her glasses and was smiling broadly.
'Aunt Minna, you seem to know something I don't know,' said Bruce. 'What's going on? I've never known a race to take so long to get going.'
Minna was still smiling broadly. 'Let me explain. When Aida and I bet on Frontier, we didn't really bet on your horse – we don't really know him. We bet on Snapper Garrison. Because we do know him. Do you remember when you took him on, he wished for a hot day? You didn't know why. But I did. Snapper's problem was to overcome the strength of the rival horses, to weaken them, which would make Frontier their equal or better. And this he has been doing. First his boot lace. Then resting on the rail. Now his broken saddle girth. All of that arranged in advance, I'm sure. Snapper has contrived to keep those other horses and their riders at the post for just about two hours. Yes, it's two hours and all the horses are still at the post. I'm certain that by now Snapper is ready to go. Let's see.'