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wet coat, and there was a slow but regular expansion and contraction of the tiny body as the foal took the first breaths of life into its lungs.
    Filly or colt? Tom did not know or care. Nothing mattered but that the foal was alive.
    Wipe the foal dry, if the mare doesn't take care of that. Wipe his nostrils clean, so he can breathe good.
    He was thinking now. He was remembering Jimmy's instructions. But there was still the frantic pounding of his heart, the uncertainty, the lack of coordination between mind and body.
    Close to the wall there was a narrow entrance to the box stall from the rear. Tom went to it, one hand reaching for the clean handkerchief in the pocket of his overalls.
    The Queen moved with him. And when he set a foot in-side the stall, she bared her teeth and came between him and her foal.
    Frightened, Tom withdrew his foot. There was nothing docile about his Queen now. She was a protective mother, fearful that he meant harm to her first foal. And she wouldn't let him near it.
    No one, not even Jimmy Creech, had told him that this might happen.
    He heard the rustling in the straw behind the Queen. The foal must be trying to get to its feet. Tom's fist closed tightly about the handkerchief he held in his hand.
    And as he continued standing there, he suddenly realized that his heart was no longer pounding, that his mind was clearing of the dazedness and bewilderment that had beclouded it. There were no instructions to follow now, nothing to remember. He had but one thing to do, to
get
to the foal. He was on his own.
    When Tom moved finally, he went to the grain box again. And there was a resoluteness to his face and step that hadn't been there before.
    The Queen had followed to the other side of the stall, her head thrust over her manger, waiting.
    Tom came back to her, his lips moving, his voice soft. But the Queen had eyes only for the container of mixed oats and bran he carried in his hand. He dumped the contents of the tin into her box and stole a glance in the direction of the foal that was struggling to its feet.
    Tom moved quickly toward the narrow entrance to the stall, then stopped abruptly and hurried back to the grain box. Quickly he filled his pockets with bran and went back to the entrance to the stall again.
    The mare was eating ravenously and paid no attention to him as he stepped inside. Tom's eyes widened as he watched the foal.
    It was on its feet, wobbling unsteadily on long, thin legs. Its head seemed much too large for so small a body.
    The foal's gaze was upon him, and as Tom looked into the soft, seeking, bewildered eyes, he knew that nothing in the world would ever equal this moment for him. He wanted to love, to cherish, to protect this foal.
    He sprang forward as the foal's legs gave way and it fell heavily to the straw. He had reached it, had touched the wet, limp body, when the mare came at him with bared teeth and ears flat against her head.
    Quickly he rose from his stooped position beside the foal. The mare stopped before his raised hand, blinking and uncertain. Tom brought his hand down softly on the Queen's muzzle.
    "I wouldn't hurt your foal. You know that. I want to help." As Tom continued talking to the mare, he fed her the bran from his pocket.
    The foal had risen to its trembling legs again and was looking at them. Tom's eyes devoured it. Its legs were straight. It wasn't deformed. It was—yes, it was a
colt Jimmy Creech had wanted a colt
.
    Stilt-legged, the foal moved toward them, shuffling, pushing his feet through the straw. He had gone only a short distance when the straw became entwined about his legs, causing him to fall. He lay still for a few minutes, then struggled to his feet again.
    Tom was beside him now. The Queen shoved her head down, seeking the bran the boy had been feeding her. Tom's eyes took in the foal's wet, sticky coat; then, taking a handful of bran from his pocket, he sprinkled it over the colt.
    The Queen turned to her foal and began licking the