The Black Stallion

been shouting to him for the past fifteen minutes. And come to supper yourself. Everything is ready."
    "But Aunt Emma, the Queen's here!" Tom shouted. "Come and look at her." But his aunt had disappeared within the house.
    I guess I can't expect them to understand
, he thought.
Living on a farm, as they do, they've always taken animals for granted. Neither of them can get excited about having a horse around. Even one like the Queen. They'd never understand if I tried to tell them how valuable she is
—
or how I feel about her
.
    "She's not going to foal for more'n a month," his uncle said.
    "She's
going to
have it sometime
next
week or soon after," Tom said as loudly as he could.
    His uncle walked around the mare. "I had mares around here for fifty years up until last summer," he said. "I know when a mare is goin' to foal, all right."
    The boy bit his lower lip. "She's going to have it—" He stopped, then shouted, "We've got to get some wood. Supper is ready."
    His uncle heard him, for he followed Tom to the woodshed. They picked up some wood and went across the recently cut lawn to the house. Entering the large kitchen, they placed the wood in the bin beside the stove. Aunt Emma was setting the table when Tom walked up to her.
    "Aunt Emma," he inquired anxiously, "is there a veterinary in town? A good one, I mean."
    Her blue eyes looked as cold as the steel about the rim of her glasses as she said, "A veterinary, Tom? What do you want with a veterinary?"
    The boy shifted uneasily upon his feet. "I want him for the Queen."
    "She sick?"
    "No, but her foal comes next week."
    "Glory, Tom! You don't need a veterinary. Why, we never had a veterinary for any of the animals when their young 'uns were born. We'd 'a' been in the poorhouse long before this if we had. Save your money, Tom. There's no need for you to be callin' a veterinary unless something goes wrong."
    Tom's gaze was steady. "That's just it, Aunt Emma. I don't want to wait until something goes wrong. I want to make sure every thing, goes right."
    "There's nothing to having a foal, Tom." His aunt went over to the stove. "Now you go wash up. I'm putting the food on the table this minute." She turned around, looking for her husband, and not finding him went to the door. "Wilmer!" she shouted. "WILMER! Tom, please go find that man for me." Her eyes were on the boy again. "And stop worrying about your mare, Tom. You'd think she was the first mare in the world to have a foal. There's nothing to it, I tell you, nothing."
    Tom left the kitchen. "And nothing's going to stop me from getting a veterinary," he mumbled. "Nothing. I've got to be sure everything goes right for the Queen's sake."

Troubled Days
3
    Early Monday afternoon of the following week Tom Messenger stood quietly in the veterinarian's office and listened to Doctor Pendergast explain why it was impossible for him to be at the Queen's side when she gave birth to her foal.
    The doctor's low-pitched voice droned on while Tom held his gaze, hoping for some hesitancy that would mean a chance the doctor might change his mind. He saw the sympathy and the kindness in the man's earnest eyes, but what he was saying was the same as what the two other veterinarians in town had said.
    "Mares, more so than any other of our domestic animals, are very irregular in the length of time they carry their young. The average time for a mare is around eleven months, but I've known some to go as long as twelve months before having their foals. You understand, then, why it would be impossible for me to stand by, waiting." The doctor smiled kindly before continuing. "But of course you should keep your mare under close observation all the time, as I'm certain you're doing."
    "I know she'll have it this week," Tom said, his words coming hard.
    The doctor smiled again. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps she will have her foal this week," he said softly. "But it's just as impossible for me to stay close beside your mare for a week as it would be to stay there a month." He patted Tom on the shoulder. "There's really not much to worry about, young man. Why, I've known mares to have their foals while at work in the field. And I've known some of them to go back to work immediately afterward!"
    "But this isn't a workhorse," Tom said, a little angry. "She's a very valuable horse, Doctor. I can't take a chance on something going wrong."
    The veterinarian walked back to his desk. "I'm sorry," he said, handing his card
to
Tom, "but the best I