The Mystery at Saratoga

drained of color. “I can’t look,” she said. “I—I don’t know why. It’s just a feeling. But I’m afraid to read the part about Mr. Worthington.”
    Dan snatched the book away from Trixie and turned again to the pages on Mr. Worthington. “You’re being silly, Trixie,” he said. “We’ve spent all this time at the library trying to find just this information. This is no time to chicken out.”
    Dan began to read the passage aloud. Trixie kept her eyes lowered, staring at the maze of initials carved in the library table by generations of Sleepyside youngsters.
    “ ‘One scandal of recent years stands out in the mind of this writer as a perfect example of the kind of thing that gives professional horse racing a bad name,’ ” Dan read.
    “ ‘The incident involved Gadfly, an exceptionally talented two-year-old owned by J. T. Worthington of Saratoga, New York.
    ‘The colt was undefeated in his first seven races, and many experts picked him to win racing’s Triple Crown as a three-year-old.’ ”
    “The Triple Crown,” Trixie breathed. “That’s the Kentucky Derby, the Belmont Stakes, and the Preakness. Only a few horses have ever won the Triple Crown!”
    “What happened, Dan?” Honey asked.
    “ ‘Gadfly won his eighth race by more than five lengths—a decisive margin,’ ” Dan read. “ ‘Then, after the race, when the tests that are now required by law at most major racetracks were taken, traces of a drug known to deaden pain in injured horses were found in Gadfly’s blood and urine.’ ”
    “Oh, no!” Honey gasped.
    “That would force the track officials to disqualify Gadfly, wouldn’t it?” Trixie asked.
    Dan nodded. “The book also says the horse’s owner and the trainer, and Gadfly himself, were barred from all the major tracks in the country for six months for violating the racing code. But that’s not all. Listen. ‘As so often happens with high-strung, sensitive horses that are bred to race, the banishment seemed to break Gadfly’s spirit. Although he was entered in four other races in the following season, Gadfly never again won a race.
    “Can that really happen?” Trixie asked.
    “Yes, it can,” Honey said. “Thoroughbreds really are as sensitive as this writer says they are. They’ll often race when they’re hurt, even when their legs are broken, to keep from losing.”
    “Is that all the book says about Gadfly, Dan?” Trixie asked.
    Dan, who had been reading rapidly down the page, shook his head. “I wish it were. But the worst is yet to come. ‘Although Gadfly was retired to Worthington Farms and may yet sire future generations of winning horses, what makes this particular scandal so awful in this writer’s memory is that no one was ever brought to justice for his part in what took place.
    “ ‘Perhaps because the incident did not result in any loss of life—human or animal—neither the horse’s owner nor the Thoroughbred Racing Protective Association took the necessary measures to insure that the case would be thoroughly investigated.’ ”
    Dan took a deep breath before he continued. This despite the fact that the chief suspect, a young groom, should have been easy to spot in any crowd because of his bright red hair!’ ”

Trixie’s Plan ● 4

    FOR THE SECOND TIME in a few minutes, the book was slammed shut—this time by Dan Mangan. As the sound echoed in the quiet of the library, Dan sat rigidly still, holding the book so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His head lowered, he stared at the front cover as though something fascinating were written on it. Only the tensed muscles of his jaw and the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed showed that he was not reading but trying to bring his emotions under control.
    When the slamming sound died away, a breathless silence descended over the part of the library where the Bob-Whites sat. The girls, too, sat with their heads lowered, lost in their own thoughts, not wanting to catch each others’ eyes and see the fear that would be visible in them.
    Unconsciously, Trixie traced with her thumbnail an initial that had been carved in the library table by some restless student. Her thoughts were occupied by a confused jumble of images: a beautiful three-year-old colt galloping across a finish line, the pack of horses far behind him; the same colt, his spirit broken, struggling in the pack in later races while another horse surged ahead.
    Mixed with those images were memories of