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to the trainer, so Jack rode along to Windsor the next week with Atherton and Robinson in the latter’s new Rover V8, 3500.
    After some careful thought, Cobb decided to speak to Atherton about Quicksilver. “I imagine you’ll find as we did at home that you’ll do better to give him a long rein.” He tried hard to be casual. “I always used to impress on my son that you cannot get good results from this horse by kicking him or using the whip much.”
    “Exactly,” replied the jockey quickly. “I found that out one of the first times I galloped him. Gave a mere flick of the whip, and he seemed to sulk off. I’ll remember that.”
    Jack knew that Windsor was far from the best English racecourse; however, he was unprepared for the lack of amenities. The stands were small and rickety, and much of the course could not be seen from the finish. In the valley of the Thames, it was low and apt to be flooded in wet weather. The day was drizzly and damp, and Jack wondered whether Robinson was wise to let Quicksilver compete under such conditions. However, the two other men took the conditions with unconcern, so Jack said nothing. The crowd seemed sparse, the field poor. Atherton didn’t appear to press the horse, yet he soon had a two-length lead and was going well.
    Then disaster struck. The field dipped on the far side of the course, and when they came in sight again Quicksilver was last. When Atherton slowly brought him back to the unsaddling enclosure, he was lame. Jack was horrified to learn that Quicksilver had hit a fence.
    The course vet felt the animal’s leg and diagnosed a bowed tendon. A somber group surrounded Quicksilver. Jack was in utter despair. They turned, watching ruefully as the stable lad led Quicksilver away.
    The next afternoon Jack, with Robinson and the head lad, stood beside the horse. Gloom was spread over each face. Doc Sanders, the vet, felt the damaged foreleg, conducting X rays in his head. The twisted plate that had shod the injured leg lay in the exact shape of a figure eight on the ground.
    A dozen fearful thoughts ran through Jack’s mind. I should have questioned his running so soon. The accident is all my fault. Will Quicksilver have to be rested until it’s too late to qualify him for spring racing? Half a dozen fears jammed his mind. Jack waited for the vet to rise and announce his diagnosis.
    “What I’m afraid of is a bad sprain of the digital flexor tendon of that foreleg. Mr. Cobb, sir, there’s only one remedy. He’ll have to be fired.”
    No, never, thought Cobb immediately! Once he had seen a horse fired, and he never forgot it. To fire a horse necessitates putting red-hot irons around the injured tendon. The experience is barbarously cruel and painful for an animal.
    The vet clapped his hat on his head. “True, it doesn’t always work, but this is my professional advice for a bowed tendon. Should you care to call in another vet, by all means do so. Talk things over with Mr. Robinson here, and make up your mind. In the meantime, good afternoon, gentlemen.”
    Waving to the group, his black bag in one hand, he got into his car and was off down the lane with a roar.
    Without further comment, Robinson motioned to the stableboy to take the horse to the stall and went inside to answer a telephone call. Jack Cobb remained in agony. To fire Stan’s horse seemed out of the question. Moreover, such a treatment meant keeping Quicksilver from racing all winter. It meant utter and complete failure. Cobb stood there, sick at the mere thought of what lay ahead.
    At last Robinson returned and spoke to him. “You know, he must have hit that fence very hard, but if I ran him too soon, I take full blame.”
    “Very good of you to say that, Mr. Robinson,” replied Cobb. “Anyhow the fact is I’m not about to have my son’s horse fired, no matter what.”
    “Don’t blame you a bit.” A flicker in Robinson’s eyes showed that he was thinking of the horse’s background and what he