"What!" Emilio exclaimed, his eyes round in curiosity. "What are you making there! A fantino? Is it you?"
Studying it, the mother said, "Why tear out your heart in an aching for the Palio? Some of us are meant to dress the table for the others to eat. They are blessed, too."
Giorgio managed a smile, but the longing for the Palio persisted. In the slow months that followed, he sometimes wished he had never listened to the Umbrella Man. But deep inside he knew he did not mean it; he was glad he had the next Palio to think of. The next one would be different. He would be in it, and the horse he rode would be an Arabian, almost white. And all the rest of his life the Palios would come, year after year, one wild race for glory after another.
The next Palio was different indeed. The contest really began on the road where the weasely groom and Giorgio waged their continual warfare. Grimy and sweating, Giorgio was trying one day to teach a mare to lead with either her right foreleg or her left when going into a canter. Unless she could take a curve on the correct lead, her legs might cross and she could fall, endangering herself and everyone on the course.
Farfalla, with her groom sitting smug and superior, was executing a series of perfect half-turns down the center of the road. Every time their paths crossed, the man sniped at Giorgio with a sharp insult. "Hey, you! To teach a donkey, is necessary the teacher is less donkey than the donkey. Ha! Ha!"
Giorgio usually ignored the quips and jibes, but this one cut deep because it was overheard by two important-looking men beckoning him to the side of the road. One, a dignified man with balding head, introduced himself as Signor de Santi, an attorney, and captain of the Contrada Nicchio, the Shell.
The other, towering and magnificent in his blue uniform, was Giorgio's friend, the Chief-of-the-Guards. In an easy, knowing way the Chief took hold of the mare's bridle and looked up at the boy's dirt-streaked face. He smiled as if he had heard the taunt but ignored it. "Giorgio!" he exclaimed, "we come with a message for you."
He turned to the Captain, who now cleared his throat as if he were about to address a jury. "We of the Shell," he intoned, "have sought a fantino raised in our own contrada, but," he cleared his throat again, "such a one cannot be found. Here am I, therefore, wandering over the countryside, seeking."
Giorgio was struck dumb by the importance of the two men, and embarrassed by his own appearance. Hastily, he wiped his face on his sleeve and with his fingers combed his hair.
The Captain boomed on. "Seeing you with your stained shirt and disordered hair makes me think of the words of Angelo Mentoni, who said, 'In order to make a fantino for the Palio, three requisites are needed—age, liver, and misery.' Age you have not; of your liver I know not; but misery you have—in a manner only too evident!"