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• 1 They had a disastrous stable fire at Tijuana last November. Some three hundred stalls were destroyed, four or live horses burned to death, perhaps a dozen temporarily lost in the hills of Mexico and several more pretty well knocked out by galloping around the infield overnight and the nervous excitement in general. Most of the Eastern horses had been here but a few days. And it was directly adjacent to the stable of one of the Easterners that j the fire started. There were eight horses in that particular string. The fire got under j way so quickly and spread so rapidly that i the stablemen were barely able to drag the j frightened racers from their boxes and turn j them loose, turning quickly to release other j imperiled horses of their own or those of a I brother owner whose stablemen were not about. The jockey attached to the stable of this particular Easterner gave a valuable hand to the work of rescue. He got three of his employers horses safely out and stayed with the job of helping others as long a a thought of his own safety would permit. Then, seeing a horse of his stable galloping madly about the fire zone, he made a dash for him, effected a lucky grasp of the horses halter shank and was thankful that he had rounded up even so lowly a thoroughbred as this four-year-old maiden. All about him horses were galloping, wheeling, being shooed from the blazing stables. Toward the hills that begin at the end of Tijuanas stables he could see other horses cantering madly, headed they or he knew not where. Dusk was falling rapidly, the burning area was spreading. Still leading the four-year-old maiden, he walked along the railroad track, keeping ever an anxious eye out for another of his stables horses. Suddenly out of the shadows darted a chestnut horse, headed straight for the jockey and the four-year-old maiden. And just as instantly the jockey recognized him — the best horse in the barn. Catching hold of any part of a galloping horse is one fraction skill, one agility, one of nerve and seven of luck. The jockey ailed on the three talents he possessed. To the other seven he trusted. And luck came his way. Tossing aside the lead strap of the four-year-old maiden, jockey Harry Wakoff made a desperate leap, thanked his sars hed grabbed the halter-shank he sought, stumbled, was bumped along for a few yards, hung on, "whoa-boyd" several times and came to a momentary pause — holding the head of Atherstone. If youd told some horsemen that evening that Atherstone had been caught and was then temporarily resting in half a box stall tendered by a fellow trainer whose barn had escaped the disaster, that horseman would have looked at you as much as to say, "Well, what of that?" Glad, possibly, that any thoroughbred had been saved, but what was there about the saving of Atherstone to cause unusual comment? For that time Atherstone was one of the least mentioned of candidates for the 0,000 Coffroth Handicap. But after the Vivaudou horse had scrambled home a nose in front of General Thatcher and enriched the Vivaudou-McDaniel confederacy and entourage by scores of thousands of dollars, recollection of that night in November when he was fortunate enough to run counter of Atherstone and then so lucky an to capture him must have crossed the mind of Harry Wakoff many times. Also, it recurred again and again to trainer "Puddin" McDaniel, for it was "Pud" that told us the story. Hell always appraise generously the luck and quick wit of Wakoff that night. For a gallop into those Mexican hills and the valleys and canyons beyond might have knocked McDaniels Coffroth hope out for the winter, possibly for all time.
