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direction of the community baseball field and pavilion. “We might recognize it.” The field was located at the back of the ponies’ turnout field, bordered by a lane we could easily get to by a detour.
    Satisfied that he’d shifted the burden of ensuring the community baseball field was returned to its original condition, namely horseless, the man shivered again and got back into his car, muttering.
    â€œLet’s go see this magnificent black beast!” said James, urging Moth into a trot. Bean and I hustled Tiff and Drummer along behind him.
    â€œWhy the hurry?” asked Drummer.
    â€œThis mystery black horse sounds exciting!” I told him. “It could be a Friesian, the royal horse of the Netherlands—”
    â€œOr there might be a reward!” interrupted Bean, overhearing me, “if he’s really that important.”
    â€œI wonder if we could sneak a ride on it,” James said. “It might be our only chance to ride a circus horse, or an escaped competition horse or film horse!”
    I felt my heart thumping in my chest. This was an adventure!
    As we drew nearer to the baseball field we slowed the ponies so as not to frighten the magnificent mystery horse. However, we all wanted to be the first to see it, and we crammed three abreast along the track (I ignored Drummer’s protests) in a hurried walk. The bushes obscured our view until we turned past the last one and eagerly craned our necks to catch our first glimpse of the magnificent black horse in its fancy bridle.
    So-called.
    â€œSomebody is playing a trick on us,” wailed Bean. “Honestly, this has to be right up there for anticlimax-of-the-year award!”
    â€œSome magnificent black horse!” I said, my shoulders sagging along with my expectations.
    â€œUgly black horse, more like,” added James.
    We stared at the horse that had received top billing. It lifted its head and stared back, still chewing the hallowed grass.
    â€œWell, give me a hat and call me Charlie, what’s he doing here?” I heard Drummer say. Then he shouted—only James and Bean heard a neigh whereas I heard, “Hey, Henry, you dumb old hillbilly, what are you doing here? Practicing for the World Series? Ha, ha!”
    Mrs. Bradley’s pushy Dales pony neighed back something about making a hole in the field hedge and finding some tasty new grass.
    â€œCall that a fancy bridle?” asked Bean, disgusted. “It’s Henry’s tattered old blue head collar. Somebody needs glasses.”
    â€œHe was wearing glasses,” I said, gloomily.
    â€œWell, he should’ve gone to LensCrafters,” said Bean.
    Nobody laughed.
    â€œGood thing we checked him out,” James said, dismounting and diving under the single rail boundary to the baseball field after handing Moth’s reins to me. “I’ll go and catch him.”
    We watched as James walked up to Henry, but Henry was having none of it. I heard him say, “Get lost!” as James approached him, then he whirled around and trotted off to the far end, near the pavilion. He also lifted his tail and left further evidence of his presence alongside his hoofprints. I wondered what Mr. (shortsighted or possibly crazy) Pinstripe Man would say when he saw that.
    â€œCome on, James!” I shouted, giggling. “Call yourself a horseman?”
    â€œWant to try?” James yelled back unhappily.
    â€œWe couldn’t do much worse,” Bean sniffed as Henry took off again, shaking his head and snorting as he did so.
    Drummer sighed. “I guess no one’s in a hurry,” he murmured.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Tiffany asked, staring intently at a twig on the ground.
    â€œA twig on the ground,” explained Drummer.
    â€œOh, OK. If you’re sure,” sighed Tiffany.
    Eventually Henry, finding himself cornered, gave himself up and came quietly, allowing James to lead him over to us.
    â€œNow