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; . • [ i ! . . . MOUNTAIN SIRE J. F. CROWLEY . Up in a mountain fastness, a few hours drive from that quiet but prosperous city of Santa Barbara, a horse— J. F. Crowley by name— holds court. Like a bandit chieftain is this big fellow — master of all he surveys. Roaming over . clefts, hopping crevices and dodging rattle- snakes, his sons and daughters receive an early education which makes them hardy and durable. A turfman found his way into I the mysterious shrine of J. P. Crowley one day last summer intent on making several purchases, but when he was taken to the edge of a precipice to look over a young colt which hovered there on the brink, staring in the va.= t space beneath, the visitor lost his nerve — forgot his mission and returned | homo with no additions to his string of run- ners to report. Yet the early training of these youngsters, strangely as it may appear and despite it. is strictly in contrast to the general idea of thoroughbred treatment as practiced in Ken- tucky, brings results. Witness the good rac- ing of Arctic King, a son of J. F. Crowley, at Tijuana, where he won live races, defeating such good sprinters as Doctor Cor- bett and Sedan. — Homestretch.
