Nelson Bond’s writing career spanned some seventy years from his first sales in 1935 to his death in 2006. He soon made a name for himself as a writer of weird and wacky fantasies, his first success coming with “Mr Mergenthwirker’s Lobblies” in Scribner’s in 1937, which formed the title story for his first collection in 1946. He sold over two hundred stories during the next twenty years but when his main market, Blue Book, shifted away from light fiction, Bond turned to his other interests as a bookdealer and expert on philately. Several of his stories were collected as The Thirty-First of February (1949), No Time Like the Future (1954) and Nightmares and Daydreams (1968). Among his stories for Blue Book were a series of tall tales narrated by “Square-deal Sam”. For some reason the following story, the second in the series, has never been reprinted, so here’s a chance to savour another rare treat.
“UNTIL next spring,” said “Squaredeal Sam” McGhee, “or August at the latest. It ain’t like I was astin’ you to give me the money. It’s just a loan, on an investment as sound as the Rock o’ Prudential, so to speak—” He eyed me with hope.
I frowned at him severely. “And just why,” I asked, “do you need three hundred dollars?”
“Well,” said Squaredeal Sam, “it’s a long story—” His gaze wandered to the box of cigars on my desk. I nodded; he took one, and lighting it, he leaned back, exuding wreaths of Havana fragrance.
Like maybe I sometime told you (Sam began), I’m the original hard-luck kid. Everything happens to me – most of it bad. For instance, just atter I signed a contract with Marty Kildare, the smoothest light heavy which ever flang leather in a squared circle, along come Pearl Harbor, an’ Marty switched over to another manager named Sam for the duration.
Course, bein’ an honest kid like he is, Marty sends me my right an’ legal commission every month, but ten per cent of a private’s pay ain’t exactly what’ll support me in the style to which I’d like to become accustomed.
So, since it looks like the boxfightin’ game is all washed up till atter Hitler an’ Hirohito is likewise, I began lookin’ around for a job in some more essential war industry. The way I figger it, one o’ the most essential war industries in these times is the racetrack racket. Guys can’t squander their money on frivialities like silk shirts an’ the etcetera if the bookies got it, an’ that prevents inflation. So I ast a few questions an’ pulled strings, an’ come spring, I was in Florida with the gee-gee circuit.
Well, right off the bat I got a break. I hooked up with this guy name of Tom Akers – the owner of a small stable – which he was reclassified 1-A when his draft-board happened to find out he could see lightnin’ an’ hear thunder. So he’d been called up, an’ he ast would I run his string till he got back. Which I would.
Atter we signed a contract, I seen Akers down to the depot, an’ since the train was a couple hours late, I an’ him sat around bendin’ elbows to wild the time away. First Akers toasted me; then I toasted him, an’ vicey-versy – an’ to make a long story short, by the time the train arrove, we was both pretty well done on both sides. So I poured him into his car an’ went back to the stables to have a look at the nags I was now manager of which.
Confidentially, they wasn’t the classiest outfit of hay-burners I ever met up with. They looked less like racin’ horses than fugitives from a black market.
Readin’ from left to right in the stalls, there was Robin Hood, a geldin’ with bow legs, a narrow forehead, an’ a quiver; a colt named Runningboard, who done the first like he was the second; one named Pitiful, who was; one named Speedy, who wasn’t; an’ one named Willwin, who wouldn’t.
The only likely-lookin’ prospect of the bunch was a filly named Princess Sally, a two-year old maiden which Akers hadn’t never raced yet on account of she was a bag of nerves. Accordin’ to her test runs, she was greased lightnin’, but she was scared of startin’-gates. Every time they put her in, she started kickin’ like a front-row chorine.
To make matters worse, along with this accumulation of unground round-steaks, I’d inherited an alleged assistant by name of Dumbo, a tow-headed little squirt with oversized ears an’ adenoids. He had five thumbs on each hand an’ an impediment in his brain. He served as a combination trainer, swipe an’ jockey for the Akers colours. Why? Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe the fact that Akers owed him seventeen months’ back pay had somethin’ to do with it.
He was in Princess Sally’s stall, rubbin’ her down, when I wandered by. I stared at him for a minute.
“Hi!” I said.
He looked up, noddin’ an’ flappin’ his ears gently.
“’Lo!” he said.
“Jack an’ game!” chimed in a voice from the adjoinin’ stall. “Down two, doubled an’ vulnerable. Wheeee!”
I started. “Who’s that?” I ast.
Dumbo shrugged. “Oh, just him,” he said. “Pretend like you don’t hear him, an’ he’ll shut up. What can I do for you, Mister?”
“The name’s McGhee,” I told him, “an’ I’ll tell you atter I’ve had a look around. I’m your new manager. Your old boss has gone to war.”
He gawked at me. “What for?”
“Because he had to. The Government called him up.”
“They did?” said Dumbo. “Gee! That must have cost a lot of money, huh?”
“What cost a lot of money?”
“A telephone call all the way from Washington.”
I glared at him suspiciously. “Now, looky here!” I said. “If you’re tryin’ to be funny—”
Dumbo wriggled, sort of embarrassed-like. He said: “D-did I say somethin’ wrong, Mr McGhee? I’m sorry. Honest, I am. Seems like I’m always sayin’ the wrong thing. I guess I better rub down the Princess.” An’ he started spongin’ the filly again. But not for long. That voice from the next-door stall called him.
“Never mind her – come in here an’ take care of me! I want my back curried!” The voice lifted in sudden raucous song: “Curry me back to old Virginny—”
“Hey!” I demanded. “What is this?”
Dumbo said: “I told you, Mister, he’s a pest. Just let on like you don’t hear him.”
“But who’s in there?” I said. “A talkin’ horse? It ain’t that Egbert Haw I read about in a magazine?”
The ears waggled negatively. “I don’t know nothin’ about no talkin’ horses, Mr McGhee. But he ain’t one.”
“It’s a man, then? But what in blazes is a man doin’ in a horse’s stall?”
“We-e-ell,” said Dumbo dubiously, “he ain’t exactly a man, neither. He’s sort of – well, sort of peculiar.”
I strode to the other stall. The door was shut. I opened the top half – an’ jumped a yard. Leanin’ with folded arms over the lower gate was a glinty-eyed little rascal with a fringe of chin-whiskers an’ an impy grin. Or not exactly a grin – a leer, more like. An’ no wonder. ’Cause as far as I could see, he didn’t have a stitch of clothes on!
I yelled: “For cryin’ out loud – what makes here?”
“I do,” said the guy, “when I can. Hyah, chum! So you’re the new boss?”
“Who are you?” I hollered. “An’ what are you doin’ in there? An’ where did you come from? An’ for Pete’s sake, go get some clothes on!”
“Nestros,” smirked the stranger, “waitin’ for something to eat, Thessaly, an’ don’t ask questions so fast. Did you say clothes? Nonsense! Garments are for stupid humans!”
Sayin’ which, he swished a long bushy tail into my eyes, turned an’ cantered around the stall proudly. I stared at him – an’ moaned. He had the body of a man down as far as his floatin’ ribs. From there on – he was a horse! . . .
An inch of ash tumbled from Sam’s cigar to the rug. He said, “Damn!” and scrubbed it into the nap. I squinted at him dazedly. “Sam!” I said. “Are you crazy? Are you telling me you met a Centaur?”
“Centaur!” said Sam. “That’s the word. I tried to remember it for weeks, but all I could think of was ‘senator.’ . . . An’ this guy was a front of a horse, too. Yep, a Centaur. That’s what Nestros was.”
“B-but,” I protested, “centaurs were fabulous monsters who lived in ancient Greece! They don’t really exist!”
“This one did,” said Sam.
“Nonsense! They were wild woodland creatures, sly and treacherous, given to drink and mad orgies—”
“You’re tellin’ me!” said Sam.
Course I don’t blame you (he continued) for not believin’ me. It’s a cockeyed set-up, I know. But there it is. An’ I can prove it, too – I hope.
Naturally, the first thing I done was to holler for Dumbo. He came shufflin’ in from the Princess’ stall, an’ ast me questions with his eyebrows.
I said: “Dumbo, am I in my right mind, or have I got delirious tantrums? Do you see what I see in there – a horse with a man’s head?”
“Where?” ast Dumbo, an’ looked at Nestros. Then he shrugged. “Oh, you mean him? Gosh, you had me excited for a minute. A horse with a man’s head—”
“Well, ain’t that what he is?”
“Shucks, no!” said Dumbo. “He aint nothin’ only a man with a horse’s body. I better go now. I got to rub down the Princess.”
Nestros leered at him. “Give her my love, bud,” he said.
Dumbo scowled. “Never mind that! You just let the Princess alone, that’s all. The next time I catch you tryin’ to kick down the p’tition between your stalls—”
“Aw, don’t be such an old grouch!” said the Centaur sulkily. “It’s no skin off your nose if me an’ Her Nibs want to fling a little whoa.”
“It’ll be skin off your hide,” said Dumbo grimly.
Nestros snorted. “Great Zeus! You think she wants to be a filly all her life?”
“As far as you’re concerned,” said Dumbo, “yes! Or you’ll be a filly-mignon.”
I stared at him. “For gosh sakes, Dumbo,” I busted in, “how can you be so calm? Don’t you realize we’re lookin’ at a real, live centaur?”
“I don’t care,” he sniffed, “if he’s an All-America halfback. I’ll comb his mane with a cobble if he don’t leave the Princess be.”
An’ he stomped away. Nestros said glumly: “There’s a killjoy for you! For two drachmas, I’d kick his ears off!”
“What’s the matter?” I ast. “What do you want with the Princess, anyway?”
He grinned. “What do you think?”
“If it’s companionship,” I said, “there’s six other horses in this paddock—”
“It’s a moot question,” said Nestros. “Sex of one, an’ half a dozen of the other. Oh, well – this ain’t gettin’ us nowhere. The question is, when do I start to see a little action around here?”
“Action?” I repeated.
“Don’t be a dope!” snorted Nestros. “This here’s a racetrack, ain’t it?”
“W-why, sure. Of course.”
“Well, when do I make with the hoofs? I’m gettin’ tired of standin’ around here like a stuffed owl.”
“Why not?” he demanded. “For three weeks Akers has been stallin’ me; if you do the same, I’m signin’ myself up a new boss. So what do you say, chum? Do I run or don’t I?”
“What I want to know,” I countered, “is can you run or can’t you?”
“Can I run!” he snorted. “Can I run? Listen, pal, I’m the fastest thing on four legs you ever saw. Why, I gave the Minotaur a ten-mile start an’ beat him from East Phrygia to Peiraeus by the Marathon route. I’m Greece lightning. I run faster than a lisle stocking. Ever hear of the ‘Trudgin’ Horse’? I’m the one who made him look slow. I can outrace, outdrink an’ outsmart any equine you ever heard of!”
“An’ outbrag,” I added, “any I ever heard, period. But okay. If the Commission’ll stand for it, I’ll play ball. Let’s go see the racetrack papas.”
An’ I took him over to the track office.
Well, what his appearance done to them Florida lads was a caution! He threw them crackers into bedlam. The Head Steward, guy named McClannaghan, took one look at Nestros an’ keeled over in a dead faint. The Wet an’ Dry platforms split even on the deal: two onlookers signed the pledge, an’ another two hit the corn like a hobnailed boot in a crowd.
There’d been eight guys – managers, track officials an’ so forth – at the office when me an’ Nestros appeared. A minute later there was only two left, the Track Commissioner an’ a guy that you’ve prob’ly heard of – “Thick Nick” Pappalousas, owner-manager of the Vulcan stables an’ the shrewdest tinhorn gambler which ever fumbled a form-sheet. The Chief was still with us because his piggies was peet rified; Nick was still on deck because his sense of direction was bad. He’d mistook an open closet for the THIS WAY OUT.
Nestros helped me lift Harkrader, the Commissioner, down offen the chandelier. He looked sort of scornful of the human race, which I don’t much blame him. Atter Pappalousas’ teeth stopped chatterin’, I told the Chief what I wanted.
His eyes bugged out of his head.
“What!” he managed. “You want to enter th-that – I mean him – I mean that – in a race?”
“Why not?” I ast him.
“B-but he’s not a horse!” said the Commissioner.
“No?” I said. “Then what is he?”
“Why, he’s a – a human,” said the Chief. “I think. Or, no . . . wait a minute! He’s a—”
“He’s a myth,” broke in Thick Nick. “A myth out of the folklore of my homeland. That’s what he is.”
“Well, a myth,” I told them, “is as good as a miler – especially when he’s got four legs, like this one. I want to enter him in a race, an’ I mean to. I been studyin’ races since I was knee-high to a jockey, an’ there’s nothin’ in the rules against it.”
I had him there. The Commissioner leafed through a collection o’ rule-books as bulky as an O.P.A. study on paper-conservation, an’ he couldn’t find no law against me enterin’ Nestros in a horse-race. The only ruling which come anywhere close to applyin’ was the one which says no six-legged horses or similarly improved models can run, on account of its bein’ unfair to standard nags, an’ therefore in restraint of trade. When I pointed out that Nestros’ forelimbs was arms, an’ that they couldn’t reach the ground no how, he give in.
“Okay, McGhee,” he said hoarsely. “Looks like he’s eligible, so long as you pay the entry fee. What race do you want to enter him in?”
“If he’s as good as he says he is,” I said, “plenty of ’em. But for a starter, I’d like to run him in the Silver Stakes tomorrow.”
Thick Nick started.
“Huh!” he said. “What’s that? The Silver Stakes?”
“What’s the matter?” I grinned at him. “You scared because you had that one figgered in the bag for your colours? Well, you might as well scratch Printer’s Ink now, Nick. The race is as good as won. How about it, Nestros?”
Nestros leered up from the divan he was settin’ on. “You said it, chum. I aint goin’ to show them punks nothin’ but heels. Hey – what’s that?” His eyes had suddenly lit on a decanter on the Chief’s desk; he rose an’ sniffed it eagerly. “Well, bless my withers, if it ain’t four-star ambrosia!”
“I ain’t had a snort of this,” said Nestros, “since I left the Old Country. How about it, Chief?”
He stared at the Commissioner hopefully, but I took the bottle away from him.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” I said sternly. “Tomorrow I’ll buy you all you want, but right now you’re in trainin’. Come on, now. We got places to go an’ things to do. See you guys later.”
An’ we left.
Squaredeal Sam paused, rubbing his chin. “All this talk about likker,” he said, “sort o’ dries me out around the gills. I don’t suppose you’d happen to have—”
“Scotch,” I asked him, “or rye? Or gin?”
“I ain’t choosy,” said Sam. “Just mix ’em.” When he had finished four raw fingers in a gulp, he sighed genteel appreciation. “Now, that’s what I call good stuff,” he said. “Eighteen months old, if it’s a day. It ain’t often you taste that aged-in-the-wood stock any more. Ambrosia – that’s what it is. Necktie an’ ambrosia, like Nestros was always talkin’ about.”
“What – and – ambrosia?” I asked him.
“Necktie. He was a sort of a poetical guy, Nestros was. ‘I ain’t much on music,’ he used to say, ‘but firewater an’ fillies is my dish. Give me the Princess an’ a moonlight night, an’ we’ll sup necktie an’ ambrosia together—”
“Nectar,” I said. “You mean nectar!”
Sam sighed again, sadly. “I’ll say he did!” he declared. “But I was just gettin’ around to that—”
Well (Sam said), what happened was my own darn’ fault. I ought to of knew better than leave that centaur out o’ my sight with the big race comin’ up the next day. But of course I had preparations to make, like slippin’ a few of the rival jockeys a few bucks an’ bettin’ a few centuries with my bookie pals before word got around how fast Nestros was. An’ so I turned the centaur over to Dumbo for safekeepin’.
“Rub him down good,” I said. “Give him his supper, an’ see that he gets a good night’s sleep tonight. Get it?”
“Yessir,” said Dumbo. “What’ll I do, Mr McGhee – pour ice-water on him?”
“Ice-water!” I yelled. “Are you off your button?”
“You said he was to get a good nice sleet tonight,” said Dumbo.
“Night’s sleep, you nitwit!” I told him. “Not nice sleet! He’s runnin’ in the Silver Stakes tomorrow. He’s got to be in tiptop condition. I’ll see you in the mornin’.”
“Yessir,” said Dumbo.
“So long, pal,” said Nestros. “Bet your shirt.”
Dumbo led him away. The last I seen of them, Nestros was hummin’ I’ll See You in My Dreams as Dumbo led him past Princess Sally’s stall, with a good grip on the halter.
The next mornin’ I got to the paddock early. An’ a good thing, too. I arrove in the nick o’ time, just as Dumbo come bustin’ out o’ the enclosure like a whirlwind with ears. He bumped into me, an’ I grabbed him.
“Hey!” I yelled. “What’s the matter?”
“Lemme go!” he howled. “Gimme a gun – a knife – an ax! Let me at him!
“Who?” I demanded, shakin’ him. “What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” he sobbed. “Nothin’ except that that darn’ centaur got into the Princess’ stall last night. Wait till I get my hands on him, the low-down—”
“Take it easy!” I soothed him. “You must be wrong. Everything seems to be okay. Come on, let’s have a look.”
But it was me that was mistook, not him. We walked over to Nestros’ stall, an the closer we got, the stronger we smelled the aroma of alcohol. I flang open the top door, an’ there sprawled the centaur, tight as a starlet’s sweater, one mitt clenchin’ an empty bottle. Half asleep, in a triumphant mumble he was croonin’, “Oh, the ol’ grey mare, she ain’ what she used to be—”
“I’ll murder him!” bawled Dumbo. “I’ll chop him up into point rations—”
“You’ll do nothin’ of the sort!” I told him. “This drunken sot may be a heel without a soul, but he’s our chance to get rich. I’ve bet every cent I own an’ a few I don’t own, on his winnin’ today. How did this happen, anyway? How come he got out of his stall?”
“How should I know?” ast Dumbo.
“Well, you was here, wasn’t you?”
“Not atter you sent word I was to go home.”
I stared at him. “Me? I sent word? Who said so?”
“Thick Nick. He come down about twelve o’clock an’ told me you said I was to go home an’ sleep—”
“Thick Nick!” I repeated, understandin’ everything now. “That dirty crook! He knew Nestros would run the pants offen his Printer’s Ink, so he framed this. Well, we’ll learn him! Come on! We got to get Nestros sobered up so he can run!”
Well, we done it. Don’t ast me how. We worked out on that refugee from a sideshow with Epsom salts an’ ice-water an’ steam-baths till he was seepin’ alky like a still.
By ten o’clock we had him standin’ up without help; by noon he could walk a reasonably straight line; an’ by two-thirty he was feelin’ good enough to trot around the paddock. He had a terrific hangover, o’ course, but that was to be expected. He was meeker than I ever seen him.
“I’m sorry, McGhee,” he said. “I only meant to get a little edge on. But it’s been so long since I had a snootful—” He shook his head ruefully. “Who was that guy gave me the ambrosia?” he ast.
“Thick Nick, the Greek,” I told him. “He’s entered a horse in the Stakes, too. He wants you out of it.”
He nodded. “I might have knew there was a catch in it,” he said. “Timmy O’Daniels, doughnuts forever—”
“Excuse me a minute, Sam,” I interrupted. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”
“Well, somethin’ like that,” said Sam.
“Are you sure he didn’t say: ‘Timeo Danaos et donæ ferentes’?” I asked. “That means, ‘Beware the Greeks bearing gifts.’”
“Could be,” said Sam . . . Well, anyhow (continued Sam), the Silver Stakes was scheduled fourth on the ticket – around four-thirty that would be. One thing I’ll say for Nestros: he had good recup’rative powers. By four o’clock he was fit as a fiddle an’ ready for anything. I sent Dumbo on up to the tack-room to get dressed in his silks – he was our jockey, you know – while I saddled Nestros an’ give him last-minute instructions.
I was just tightenin’ the final cinch when into the paddock come Commissioner Harkrader an’ Thick Nick. Nick was grinnin’ like a cat in a creamery, but his smirk curdled when he seen Nestros. The Commissioner looked puzzled too.
He said, “I – er – there seems to be some misunderstanding, McGhee. Nick led me to believe you were scratching your entry.”
“Unless he develops hives between now an’ the post-time,” I said, “Nick’s wrong. Nestros is runnin’, Chief.”
Nick moaned, “I – I don’t understand it! He was as stiff as a boiled shirt—”
Nestros chuckled. “A mere truffle, chum,” he said. “Drop around tonight, an’ we’ll split another keg – on me, this time.”
Harkrader turned to Nick. “Well, Pappalousas – you were wrong. Apparently this – er – horse is quite capable of running, and eligible too. I’m afraid there is nothing more we can do to stop him.”
“No,” said Thick Nick. “I guess not—” He paused suddenly, his eyes lightin’ on Nestros’ hoofs. “Hey! Wait a minute!” he yelled. “There is somethin’ else! This horse is ineligible!”
“Why?” demanded me an’ Harkrader together.
“Because,” pointed Nick, “he aint shod! Accordin’ to the rules of horse-racin’, no horse can enter a race which aint properly equipped with horseshoes! He ain’t got none!”
I took a quick look. The Greek was right. Nestros didn’t have nothin’ on his pedals but grass-stains.
I groaned. Nestros looked puzzled. “Horseshoes, chum?” he said. “How long does it take to get them?”
“Too long,” I told him. “There’s a blacksmith here on the track, but it would take him a half-hour, at least, to shoe you. An’ the race starts in less than thirty minutes.”
“Half an hour,” said Nestros thoughtfully. “That’s not so bad. I think I can fix it. They delay the race if it rains, don’t they?”
“Yes,” I told him. “Long enough to see if it’s goin’ to clear up again or not. Why?”
“Why, because,” said the centaur, “I think I’ll let it rain a little.” He lifted his head an’ started whisperin’ something in foreign words. The sky, which had been as clear as a crystal ball, all of a sudden started gatherin’ wisps of cloud. They got thicker an’ heavier an’ darker by the minute – an’ before you could raise an umbrella, down come the rain in a regular cloudburst!
Nick howled like a kicked pup, tossed one horrified look at Nestros, an’ ran. Harkrader lit out too. You see, what Thick Nick had forgot to take into consideration was the fact that centaurs, in addition to bein’ legendary creatures, is also – demi-gods!
In a tight spot, Nestros had turned on a miracle!
But there wasn’t no time to waste. I grabbed aholt of Dumbo, who had just returned from the tack-room.
“Quick, kid!” I yelled. “We’ve got a thirty-minute lease on life, liberty, an’ the pursuit of filthy lucre. Not a minute to waste. Hurry Nestros down to the smithy an’ have him shod!”
“Huh?” said Dumbo, gawkin’. “You mean it?”
“Of course I mean it! Get goin’!”
“Sure, Mr McGhee!” he said. “Yes-sir! Right away, Mr McGhee!” he said. An’ he grabbed Nestros’ reins, an’ off they went.
I should of knew right then. I should of seen that he was too anxious, too willin’ to help. But I was too eager to get goin’, too wrapped up in my own thoughts . . .
First hint I had that anything was wrong came a few minutes later when I heard somethin’ like an auto backfirin’. The minute it sounded, the rain stopped. I was just thinkin’ to myself how funny this was, when Dumbo appeared, exposin’ a mouthful of molars in a grin that stretched from the nape of his neck to his tonsils. He was carryin’ Nestros’ saddle an’ gear. I stared at him.
“What are you doin’ back here?” I demanded.
He nodded happily. “It’s done, Mr McGhee. I done it myself.”
“Already?” I gasped. “You mean to tell me you shod a horse in less than five minutes? Dumbo—”
His jaw dropped. “Shod!” he said, “Sh-shod! Gee, Mr McGhee – I thought you said to take him away an’ have him shot!”
“So,” said Squaredeal Sam, “that’s all. I told you I’d bet everything I had on Nestros. I maybe forgot to say I also bet everything Akers owned. Which is why his stables is bein’ auctioned off next Sattiday.”
I stared at him dubiously.
“This has all been most entertaining, Sam,” I said, “but it still doesn’t explain why you want three hundred dollars. An investment, you said—”
“That’s right,” nodded Sam. “I got to buy Princess Sally at that auction. I may be wrong – but from what I know about centaurs, it looks to me like there’s still a chance to hit the jackpot. Like the fellow says, ‘There’s no foal like a young foal.’”