Tue, February 07 2012
| TITLE: | How Phileas Won his Second Greatest Bet |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Sherry Thornburg |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | Crossover, Crossover Workshop |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | G, Gen |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | |
| DESCRIPTION: | Crossover Workshop Entry |
| STATUS: | Complete |
The World Fair in Paris was the place to be in 1889. People from all over the world were traveling to France that year.
“All the more reason I won’t be going,” Phileas Fogg had announced when his two eldest sons, Robert and Raz, began their efforts to get their father to take them.
A retired country gentleman now, nearing seventy, Fogg didn’t chose to travel much anymore and didn’t like crowds in any case. These days, Fogg put most of his interest and energy into Shillingworth Magna’s stables. He had been attempting to gain top quality breeding stock, and that took up most of his time.
Finally, it was a letter from Jules Verne inviting his old friend to attend with his family that had made the difference. Jules was inviting them to stay at his home and visit the equestrian exhibits, which he said, using profuse praise in his letter, were beyond anything Phileas would ever have a chance to see in one place again.
Phileas was tempted with that.
“It would be good to see Jules and Honorine again,” Melody had said as she tatted in the parlor while he read the letter aloud. “I don’t think we have seen them in, oh, at least five years.” With that gentle reminder of his lapse in keeping up with his old friend, Fogg had given up.
The boys were thrilled!
They arrived in Paris toward the end of the fair and almost immediately headed for the exhibition. The Vernes and Foggs excitedly scattered about the fair grounds heading for their particular interests. Honorine took Melody for lunch at Mr. Eiffel’s Tower, the boys headed off with Jules’ son, Michael, and Verne led Fogg to the horses.
Fogg had to admit that Jules had been right. The equestrian exhibits were spectacular. There were Andalusian horses from Spain, Frederiksburg horses from Denmark, Friesians from the Netherlands, Hanoverians from Saxony, and many others too numerous to name. And every exhibit had information on breeders for buyers. Fogg found himself very much enjoying himself, despite his earlier disinterest. But the horses that struck Phileas most were the Arabians brought in for exhibition. They were magnificent!
“The finest, purest horses in the world,” Phileas had said to Jules as they stood by admiring the animals. Jules smiled in amusement as his friend looked on the Arab horses, almost worshipfully. “I have been looking at a pair for my stables owned by a man in Surrey,” Fogg added, “but these are far and away better quality animals.”
“Then you might speak to the agent,” Verne suggested helpfully. I understand the owner controls the camel trade in Arabia. He is also supposed to be the heir of a century’s old family of horse breeders.
“Truly,” Fogg replied with interest?
Fogg didn’t wait more than a minute to ask for a meeting with the man. He asked one of the Arab’s stablemen where the agent could be found. After asking about, the stableman told Fogg that Mr. Ras Rasmussen had gone to see the Wild West Show.
“Buffalo Bill’s show,” Jules added smiling. “It has been one of the fairs most popular events.”
“And how many times have you been to it?” Fogg asked teasing his friend. Jules had always been fascinated with America’s frontier. He could still remember the times Jules had been able to visit America with him aboard the Aurora.
‘Lord, I do miss that beautiful lady,’ Fogg thought privately. It had been years since he had last seen her being moved into a government warehouse, but he still missed her.
Jules chuckled good-naturedly at the ribbing. “A few times,” he admitted looking at his watch. “Come on, the next show will be in ten minutes, we could make it and then look for Mr. Rasmussen afterwards.”
‘Often enough to know the show’s schedule,’ Phileas added to himself stifling a chuckle, but didn’t comment aloud. “Lead the way.”
They reached the exhibition tent where the show was being held. It was just getting started.
Phileas found Bill Cody’s narration of the events a bit over dramatized, but the show was not unlikable. The Indians rode about on their small Mustangs doing tricks and pretending to chase a stagecoach on its way to Deadwood, via Paris. The American Cavalry came to the rescue, chasing the Indians away in proper storybook fashion. A tiny lady rode into the arena next and did a shooting exhibition. She was a crack shot, shooting holes through playing cards and shooting the end off a cigarette.
‘Rebecca should be seeing this,’ Phileas thought. More American reenactments followed.
At the end of the show, Phileas and Jules stood and headed for the only Arab they had seen watching the show, sitting on the far side of the arena. The man was moving into the backstage area where the shows equipment was kept. Phileas, refusing to lose the object of his search, followed as quickly as he could. Inside, he tracked the Arab heading for the far end where partitions were set up. Jules reluctantly followed him.
“Fogg, we really aren’t supposed to be in here.”
“The fair ends on Friday Jules,” Fogg reminded him. “The longer I wait to speak to the man, the greater the chance I will miss him. Come Jules; think of what the Arab could tell us about his country’s horses. You could, I’m sure, write another adventure book just on that.”
Jules declined to comment. His recent endeavors included the under purchased ‘A Family without a Name’ and the still unknown success of ‘Purchase of the North Pole.’ The only consuming thoughts to his full brain at present were for the young lady, Miss Bly, who was attempting to out do his ‘Around the World in 80 Days’ trip. It was an American publicity stunt, but a well planned one. She had come to visit him while in France and had gone over her travel plans with him during the visit. It appeared to be same track he had used in ’80 Days.’ Since then, he had been tracking her trip nearly mile by mile. And he knew Fogg was tracking it too.
Verne had originally written ‘80 Days’ as a cover story for Fogg after rescuing Rebecca from India. Later, he had made a full blown novel of the story will Fogg’s full blessing. He had heavily fictionalized and caricatured the main characters in it to the point no one would recognize the real Fogg and Passepartout. Actually Fogg had loved it and thought the way he had been portrayed a great joke. He even teased Jules about the book being his first attempt at writing comedy.
The real trip, however, had been no comedy. It had taken place back in 1868. Jules had joined Fogg in it and had been there to help rescue Rebecca from a funeral pyre after having been kidnapped. All three men refused to talk about details of that trip when asked beyond what Jules had stated in his book. Fogg then moved further into the backstage tent cutting off Verne’s reflections.
The cavernous tent was partitioned off on the far side where the stagecoach had been parked. They then heard the Arab’s name called by another man far to the back side. Mr. Rasmussen joined him. The two then moved into a partitioned area.
Fogg hesitated for a moment as the two men disappeared. “It seems Mr. Rasmussen had a previous appointment,” Fogg said in disappointment. “I suppose we will have to wait for another day.” Fogg then turned disappointedly intending to leave the tents.
On the way, another man, a dusty cowboy, passed them looking three sheets to the wind and working on a fourth. Fogg looked back as the cowboy headed for the same area the Arab had.
Fogg hesitated again. He didn’t want to give up this opportunity. He wanted a chance to purchase those horses badly. ‘Perhaps I could just go back and at least let the man know I want to talk to him.’
Before Phileas could decide to leave or stay, the tiny markswoman, Annie Oakley, stepped up and asked them if they were lost. The two older gentlemen greeted her kindly and introduced themselves when she asked their names. The little dark haired woman with a profusion of marksmanship medals on her dress front had apparently read some of Jules’ books. Her eyes went wide and immediately began a conversation with Jules that quickly became an exercise in mutual praise.
She also exclaimed on Fogg. “I didn’t know there was a real Phileas Fogg!” She said startled at the revelation. “How wonderful! Mr. Cody would love to meet you,” she added, and then went back to conversing with Jules about his other books.
Fogg stood by politely, but soon became bored with it, yet didn’t see fit to deprive his friend of an avid admirer. Instead, he drifted away from the two back toward the partition that separated him from the Arab and the cowboys as they conducted their meeting. ‘Perhaps I could use my fictional persona to some advantage here,’ the determined Englishman considered. For a chance at buying a few of those fine Arabians, he would be willing to do much.
Voices drifted from the meeting place into the outer tent. As usual for Americans, they were speaking loudly. One of the voices Fogg heard was the unmistakable clear tenor of the show master, Bill Cody.
Fogg set himself, pulling at his cuffs and taking up his cane before pulling the tent flap aside. “Mr. Cody, Miss Oakley said you and I . . . Oh, hello gentleman, am I intruding?” Fogg asked innocently as he surveyed the faces in the small office.
“Sir,” Mr. Cody said in greeting as he stood. “Annie sent you to speak with me?”
“Not exactly no,” Fogg added, not wanting to misrepresent the lady’s comment. “Miss Oakley said you would be interested in meeting me. Phileas Fogg of England,” he said introducing himself as he took the American’s hand.
The announcement of his name had the desired effect. All the men in the room stood to greet him, exclaiming on his supposed exploits in Verne’s book. Fogg accepted their comments gracefully, and answered rapid-fire questions.
The drunken cowboy had apparently read the book too and was wisely suspicious of the details. “You really did all that was in the book,” the man, Frank Hopkins, questioned?
Fogg smiled. “Some of what was in the book was poetic license,” he agreed. “Actually a good part of it,” Fogg admitted. My wife is English, and we were married before that trip took place. There was no rescue of a fair lady from a suttee,” he lied, thinking of how he had found his cousin, drugged and about to be added to a funeral pyre in order to dispose of her. “And my supposed run from English law was an embellishment as well. Nonetheless, the fact that the trip took eighty days is true.”
“Writers . . . God love them,” Mr. Cody said laughing at that. “There are plenty of dime novels about me around that I can tell you are more fiction than fact. But true life isn’t always the stuff or romance and adventure. Speaking of that, I understand that Miss Nellie Bly is on her way to out do you,” he added, speaking of the American reporter.
“And she may indeed,” Fogg added. “Travel across the world is much faster now than when I made my trip. I wish Miss Bly every luck and a safe speedy journey.”
“Well spoken,” Mr. Cody said as he offered Fogg a chair. As you are here, please sit, we would like a man of travel’s opinion of a challenge brought before us. Frank Hopkins here has a considerable reputation in America for endurance racing. 400 races without a loss,” he announced. “Right Frank?”
Hopkins gave a nod as he settled back in his chair.
“But our friend from Arabia, Mr. Rasmussen,” Mr. Cody said indicating the Arab, “wants to put that to a test outside America. He was just offering Frank an invitation to a yearly race in his country, a 3000-mile race through the deserts of Syria and Iraq run for centuries by the Arabs and the best Arabian horses available.”
Mr. Rasmussen then added on that, explaining the history and the entry fee required to be part of it.
“Most interesting,” Fogg said of it. “I have never heard of this race, but there is no reason that I would have. I breed horses rather than race them and have rarely been to that part of the world. Actually, I have been wanting to speak to you, Mr. Rasmussen, about your fine horses.”
“And I was planning to respectfully decline the invitation,” Hopkins said cutting in on Fogg, in a tone not as respectful as his words.
Having had a look at the fellow as he entered the tent and through the conversation here, Fogg seriously doubted that the dusty cowboy had two pennies to his name, much less the stated entry fee. The bluster was, in Fogg’s opinion, a cover to avoid admitting he couldn’t afford it.
“We suspected you might,” Frank, Mr. Cody said as he and the other American cowboy who had not entered the conversation shared a look. “But this is more than just another race,” he elaborated. “This is a challenge on America and American horses.”
“Horses Americans aren’t much interested in,” Frank commented with narrowed eyes, “or you.” That was a direct jab against Cody’s refusal to consider helping Chief Eagle Horn in his bid to save the wild Mustangs from the extermination efforts going on in the west.
Cody knew it and frowned in response. “The government’s attitude against the Mustang isn’t mine,” he defended. “And a win of this kind might get enough publicity to change some of that.”
At any rate, the other man said cutting in, “the Congress of Rough Riders of the World is willing to put up your entry fee.”
At that, Frank Hopkins seemed to rouse himself from his stupor. “You are?”
That and the trip there,” he confirmed.
Frank considered that for a moment and then accepted, with a voice that was surprised and honestly grateful, which gave Phileas the impression that he had been right about the man’s finances.
A moment later, the Arab, Rasmussen, made his exit, inviting Phileas to go with him to discuss the business of buying top quality Arabian stock. They picked Verne up on the way out, but Jules declined to go with them, leaving Phileas free to handle his business at his leisure.
“As you have noted, these are the finest horses in the world,” Rasmussen stated as they reentered the equestrian exhibits. “They are strong and can withstand the hardships of the great desert far better than the thoroughbreds of Europe. The family of the Sheik of Sheiks, whom I am servant to, has bred them for centuries. And these are not his best. The Sheik of Sheiks would not allow his best animals to be brought to Europe. They are too precious to him.”
Phileas nodded, understanding the truth of the man’s boast. What he didn’t understand was the Arab’s invitation to the American to be part of a race traditionally run only by Arabians.
Just then, Frank Hopkins rode by on his American Mustang. The cowboy tipped his hat to the two men as they acknowledged him and then moved on. His mount was a small showy paint pony, smaller even than the Arabians, which were smaller than the average European horse. The Mustang was not a bad looking animal, but Fogg knew it to be a wild breed, not considered at all the thing by most professional horsemen; a hardy little animal surely, but not of the quality of an Arabian.
“And yet you invited that paint pony to be part of your great race?” Fogg questioned watching as the American and his horse moved out of sight?
Rasmussen smiled. He then explained about horses and old bloodlines. Bloodlines that had found their way to America with the Spanish Conquistadors and would be coming back again to their Arabian Desert origins in the guise of the paint Mustang named Hidalgo. They were indeed small hardy animals, bred back to their original condition through years of living free and wild on America’s western deserts and plains. They had a very strong hard bone structure for strength, like the Arabian. “And if any animal other than a native Arabian were to win the great race, the American Mustang will be it,” he said. And that came from a man who knew his native horses and land.
For the next few days, the paint Mustang and its entry into the Arab race intrigued Fogg. He spent much time asking around about the horse and its rider. Bill Cody verified at least one race that Hopkins had won. It had been the longest race ever held in America, from Galveston to Vermont.
“Hopkins was the winner and one of only three entries to finish,” he told the Englishmen. “The horse he won that on was also a Mustang. I invited him to join my show because of that win. The man knows horses and knows how to win endurance races. I have no doubts at all that he will make a good showing in the race in Arabia.”
Months later the next year; Phileas was back home in England again. He had received his Arabians from Mr. Rasmussen’s employer. They had undoubtedly been the finest animals Fogg and most other breeders he had showed them to had ever seen. With them, Shillingworth Magna was in the process of going on the map for horse breeding.
Today, Fogg was in London on business. After completing his business, he had had lunch at the Reform club and then had sat down in its quiet library to digest. As he sat reading the ‘Times,’ an officer of the club came up to him. Sir Bothwell Reaves was the keeper of the club’s betting book.
“Mr. Fogg,” he said, bringing himself to the older gentleman’s attention. Fogg dropped his paper and gave the man his attention. “Your winnings sir,” Sir Bothwell offered handing Fogg two envelopes, which would contain checks on the Bank of London.
“Thank you Sir Bothwell,” Fogg said as he accepted the envelopes. “You needn’t have bothered yourself. I could have picked it up from the clerk as usual.”
The other man nodded in agreement. “I know sir, but I am bitten by a strong curiosity as to why you chose to bet as you did when most all of the membership backed Lord Davenport so heavily. His animal was without exception the finest in England, and some would say Europe too.”
Lord Davenport’s entry into the Arab race that Frank Hopkins had been invited to had been the main topic of discussion at the clubs when Fogg had come home from France. The older horsemen and his wife were after a win to gain breeding rights with the Sheik of Sheiks, the man Ras Rasmussen served. They had even found and hired an Arab horseman familiar with the grueling race to better their chances. The betting book had given the Davenport entry good odds to win and most had bet accordingly. But Fogg had quietly bet against him, where the odds were higher.
Fogg gave the younger man a smile and answered the question. “Lord Davenport’s livestock are indeed quite exceptional, but I learned of another entry in the race Lord Davenport was on his way to that was considered a better contender. Did your information from His Lordship’s loss include the actual winner of the race, or just the fact that he lost?”
“Just his defeat, I’m afraid. The Arab that won the race was not named,” the officer told him. “Undoubtedly it was a fine Arab horseman on a native Arabian.”
“Indeed,” Fogg said with an amused smile creeping across his face. Lord Davenport was as good chap, but no Englishman cared to be trounced by an American, and would not admit to it if he didn’t have to. As such, Davenport evidently had allowed everyone to think as they wished. “I suppose that is to be expected.”
Fogg then bid the officer good day and resumed his reading. Fogg didn’t try to explain the rest of what he knew of the Arab race to Reaves. Davenport could keep his secret if he wanted to. Fogg, however, had been getting direct reports on the long race through the Sheik of Sheiks himself. He knew how that little known race had gone and how well Hopkins and his Mustang had done. Fogg smiled down at the envelopes in his hands. One contained his winnings involving Miss Bly’s trip around the world. She had completed it in seventy-two days, just has he had calculated. The other was for his bet against Lord Davenport. Between the two, his rather pricey purchase of six Arabians from the Sheik of Sheiks should be fully reimbursed. Actually, if he had calculated right, the two would equal an amount just under what he had supposedly won in Jules Verne’s version of his trip around the world. But not quite what had been in the pot when he had won the Aurora.
Pocketing the envelopes, he settled down happily to finish his paper.
The End
Historical details according to Frank Hopkins:
Having watched the movie again recently, I was struck by the wonderful story of Frank Hopkins and his race across Arabia back in 1890. The reason for his even being in that race, according to his letters, started on the grounds of the World’s Fair of 1889 in Paris. Frank Hopkins had been involved in the exhibits through being part of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show. (Whether he was a headliner or just a nameless cowboy trick rider is under debate.) He says he became part of the show after winning an endurance race in 1886. There were cavalrymen from all over the world at those exhibits, including the Arab Ras Rasmussen, who controlled the entire camel freight in Aden, Arabia. He was the one that invited Frank Hopkins to the big race in Arabia, to pit an American Mustang against Arabia’s greatest and purest horses. A group, the Congress of Rough Riders of the World, paid his entry fee, allowing Frank to travel to the event. Hidalgo was an eight year old at the time. They reached the finish stone thirty-three hours of actual travel ahead of the second horse. The race took sixty-eight days in all, a ride of over 3,000 miles; with a few days of rest included.
If Phileas had been 40 in 1862, he would have been sixty-eight when the great race across Arabia took place and Jules would have been (per the series, not real life) around 50.
Personal Notes: I have hunted through the net and found references both for and against Frank Hopkins. He was either one America’s great unknowns that the media of his time overlooked, or a tall tale teller. What is not in doubt is that he knew what he was talking about when it came to the care, training and handling of endurance horses and that he was a great advocate of Spanish Mustangs.
Considering the government’s official attitude about Mustangs and the attempts to eradicate them in those times, and biases against Indians, I wouldn’t be surprised if the exploits of a half-breed Indian on a Mustang horse had been downplayed and or deliberately ignored in those days. Also, the race was for Arabs on Arabian horses for the most part. Frank Hopkins might have been one of the first contestants from outside. And as the race took place on the proverbial other side of the world, I question whether it would have been known of or reported on in America.
The start of the race was at Galveston, Texas. The finish line was at Rutland, Vermont. Take out a gazeteer or atlas. It would be difficult to find two points in the United States farther north or south than these. The terms of the race were simple. To win a man had to ride the same horse all the way; to ride not over ten hours out of every twenty-four. Weight carried, size of horse, kind of saddles, style of riding these things did not count. The prize was $3000, offered by Baldwin and Fox.
All along the route, which zig-zagged and wound over highways, dirt roads, bridges, ferries, through cities, villages, up over mountain ranges and across low ground, were judges; scores of them. They kept tab on the racers. Through a practical system of cards, which the riders carried and which they showed and had punched whenever they stopped, the judges knew every day just how far every rider had ridden and just where he was.
Seventeen hundred and ninety-nine miles! That was a horse race! It would take a good horse to win—with a mighty good rider on its back. And here is the story of the winner in his own words:
"We started on the morning of September 6, 1886," Mr. Hopkins recollected. "The starting-line was at the Old Point Ferry Slip, but it had been kept secret until the last minute because of the S.P.C.A. of that day. There was 56 of us, as motley a group of riders as you could find anywhere. Some were ex-cavalrymen, some cowboys, some city riders. We started and headed north. I remember particularly a man named Gifford from Texas, a James Waldron, Charlie Austin from South Dakota, a man named Green from Idaho, and a little chap called Shorty Price from Colorado.
"They all left me at the start, and it was several days before I saw them again. Then one by one I began picking them up, passing them. Before very many days I was out in front—and I never saw another rider until I had been in Rutland for two weeks. Then Number Two came in, and we waited together for the winner of third place. He was the last. The other 53 couldnt make the grade.
"The horse I rode was a little fellow, a stallion I called Joe. Judged by show-ring standards, he wouldnt be called much of a horse, because he was small and as lazy as an Arkansas fisherman. But I knew what he had in him, for he had been my top horse several years before when I was running buffalo up in Montana. He was seven years old in 1886.
"In spite of averaging mighty close to 60 miles a day for a whole month, Joe finished in Rutland in better condition that he was in at the start. He actually gained eight pounds on the road, and I never could see that the long run caused any ill effects. In fact, seven years later, when he was fourteen years old, I rode Joe in another long race—this one 1,100 miles. In the Galveston-Rutland run I weighed 152 pounds, my saddle 34, Joe weighed 800."
Frank Hopkins was paid off by Lucky Baldwin in Louis Butler's livery stable in Rutland, Vt. He returned to Laramie, Wyoming, after the race and found William F. Cody, the famous Buffalo Bill, and Nathan Salisbury waiting for him. They hired him for their Wild West show and Hopkins played with the show that winter in New Yorks old Madison Square Garden, staying on until the end of its run in 1917 and traveling all over the world. He is remembered by old-timers in Germany, Ireland, even the countries of Africa and Asia.
Mr. Hopkins kept a log of his journey, which is the most eloquent tribute ever paid to the endurance of a horse and the skill of an American horseman. It shows that doughty little Joe made the 1,799 miles in 31 days' time. Figure out his average daily mileage—57.7 miles. Can you find another record to equal this in the history of the horse?
March 9, 1940
"My dear Mr. Harris:
"This was how my going to Arabia came about: During the World's Fair in Paris, France, I was contesting against cavalry men of all nations of the World—men who had been picked by their own government and sent there. Naturally I met many good horsemen, among them one Ras Rasmussen, who controlled the entire camel freight in Aden, Arabia. He seemed to take quite an interest in me, told me of the endurance rides that took place in his country every year and asked me to visit there. He spoke particularly of one ride that was run every year for more than a thousand years and no one but Arabs rode in that race. He was a great horseman of that country and he brought some of his horses to the Fair; they were the best I'd ever seen, but they were small. After the contest was over, at the end of the Fair, 1889, our Show got ready for the voyage back home, and one morning Nathan Salisbury sent for me and with him was Ras R. I got the greatest surprise of my life when they told me I was to go to Arabia! The funds for the trip were furnished by the Congress of Rough Riders of the World.
"I shipped three of my ponies—one called Hidalgo and two of his half brothers; all of them cream and white spotted stallions. Hidalgo was eight years old then and I trained him for the long ride. He was as fine a looker as could be found. I had ridden him on some hard rides and knew what he could do if called upon. The long ride started from Aden (this was in 1890); we rode along the Gulf to Syria, then inland along the borders of the two countries. Much of this ride was over limestone country, the only feed available were plants called vatches and to my surprise these weeds were very nourishing food for our horses if they were dry—some of the riders fed the vatches green. The only grain was barley. Over one hundred horses started in that ride; many were ruled out the first week. My Hidalgo began passing other horses on the fourteenth day of the ride and gradually moved up toward the front every day. Hidalgo reached the finish stone thirty-three hours of actual travel ahead of the second horse. I was sixty-eight days in all on that ride of over 3,000 miles; there were a few days that we rested. Some of the way was over loose sand and the air was very dry and hot and water scarce. My horse lost quite a lot of flesh, still he finished strong and in good spirit.
"I left him in that land of fine horses where he belonged. I heard of him often, though, until he died—at the age of twenty-eight. Ras R. raised many fine colts from Hidalgo and Arab mares. Most of these colts were pure white; strange how the color will throw back at times.
"I am returning herewith the pictures you so kindly enclosed with your letter, for I know how important they are at times with most horsemen."
Naturally I met many good horsemen, among them one Ras Rasmussen, who controlled the entire camel freight in Aden, Arabia. He seemed to take quite an interest in me, told me of the endurance rides that took place in his country every year and asked me to visit there. He spoke particularly of one ride that was run every year for more than a thousand years and no one but Arabs rode in that race.
Red Calf, the Shoshone Indian who persuaded Mr. Hopkins to buy the little Mustang mare White-y from General Crook, is of course, one of the essential actors in this drama, but the climax is reached when this incomparable horseman on his wonderful Mustang Hidalgo takes the measure of the best horsemen and horses in all Arabia. When Mr. Hopkins is asked to leave Hidalgo in Arabia for breeding purposes and we realize that the blood has made the circle and been joined again with the bloodstream of its Arab ancestors, the greatest of war horses, this part of the story is told.
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