Comet and the Champion’s Cup. Stacy Gregg
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Comet and the
Champion’s cup
Stacy Gregg
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2008. HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd, HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
Text copyright © Stacy Gregg 2008
Illustrations © Fiona Land 2008
Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020 Cover photography © Shutterstock.com CBBC logo © British Broadcasting Corporation 2016
The author and illustrator assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of the work.
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Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007340699
Version 2020-08-18
For Kirsty, who was there and knows
what really happened…
Contents
The bay colt knew the girl was watching. He arched his neck proudly, delighting in her attention as he trotted by. When he passed the paddock railing where the girl was sitting, the colt came so close that he almost brushed against her knees. She giggled and reached out a hand to grab him, but the colt swerved away, putting on a sudden burst of speed, galloping away from her to the other side of the paddock.
When he reached the hedge at the end of the field his flanks were heaving and his muzzle was twitching with excitement. He wheeled about, his ears pricked forward, turning to face the girl who stared intently back at him.
The girl whistled. Her lips pursed together as she blew once, then a second time–a sharp, clear note that carried across the paddock. The colt heard her call, but at first he refused to obey, stamping at the ground and tossing his head defiantly. He held his ground briefly, his muscles quivering, before he leapt forward as if he were a racehorse, breaking from the gate. Thrilling in his own speed as his eager strides swallowed up the ground between them, the colt galloped back to her, wanting to start the whole game again.
“Good boy, Storm!” Issie giggled as the colt swept past again, once more managing to avoid her hand as she reached out to touch him.
They had played this game of tig many times, but Issie never got tired of it. She loved to watch Nightstorm move. His body still hadn’t grown into those long, lanky legs–it was as if he were teetering about on stilts–and yet there was something so graceful about him.
Nightstorm was hardly recognisable as the tiny bay foal with the white blaze that had been born that stormy night in the stables here at Winterflood Farm. It was Issie who had named the colt Nightstorm as they sheltered together in the stables while the lightning flashed above their heads. Lately, though, she had taken to calling him by his nickname–Storm.
Storm was just three months old, but already Issie could see that he was the best possible combination