"I—I—jest get 'em used to it," he faltered.
"How?" demanded the trainer.
"I—I jest lead 'em up to it, first along, an' let 'em smell of it and look at it. Then I git one of the boys to spring it while I'm a-standin' by at their heads. They git used to it pretty soon. Then I ride 'em up to it."
"Humph!" grunted the trainer; but later he said to the foreman: "That kid's got sense."
It wasn't long before Tim was exercising three-year-olds, and one gray morning when he turned out of the loft where he slept, the foreman shouted:
"Hurry up, you Tim, an' git yer breakfast."
The boy wondered and obeyed. He gulped down the last of his oatmeal, shot out of the training kitchen, and ran up to the stables, where a negro groom was holding a big bay horse, about which Faulkner himself was busily working. The trainer arose as the boy ran up.
"Up you go, kid," he said and tossed Tim into the saddle.
And Tim knew that he was to exercise Lear! And everybody knew that the Holland stable was pointing Lear for the Brooklyn Handicap! It was a proud moment for Tim. But his honors didn't sit too heavily on his small shoulders, for Faulkner was a hard task-master.
"Jog him to the mile post and send him the last half in .55 an' keep yer eye on the flag," the trainer would order.