"'Uncle Jake,' says Miss Goodloe, 'where is your twenty dollars you got for that tobacco you raised?'

"'Ain' I tole you 'bout dat, Miss Sally? Dat mis'able money done skip out an' leave thoo a hole in ma pocket,' says Uncle Jake, 'n' pulls one of his pants pockets inside out. Sure enough, there's a big hole in it.

"'Didn't I give you a safety-pin to pin that money in your inside coat pocket?' says Miss Goodloe.

"'Yess'm, dat's right,' he says. 'But I'se countin' de money one day an' a span ob mules broke loose an' stahts lickety-brindle fo' de bahn, an' aimin' to ketch de mules, I pokes de money in de pocket wid de hole. I ain' neber see dat no-'coun' money sence.'

"Miss Goodloe looks at the ole nigger fur a minute.

"'Uncle Jake . . . oh, Uncle Jake . . .' she says. 'These are the things I just can't stand!' Her eyes fill up, 'n' while she bites her lip agin, it ain't no use. Two big tears roll down her cheeks. 'I'll see you in a moment,' she says to me, 'n' goes inside.

"'Bad times! Bad times, pow'ful bad times!' says Uncle Jake, 'n' hobbles away a-mutterin' to hisself.

"It's begun to get under my skin right. I'm feelin' queer, 'n' I gets to thinkin' I'd better beat it. 'Don't be a damn fool!' I says to myself. 'You ain't had nothin' to do with the cussed business 'n' you can't help it none. If you don't buy this colt somebody else will.' So I sets on the edge of the porch 'n' waits. It ain't so long till Miss Goodloe comes out again. I gets up 'n' takes off my hat.

"'What horse do you wish to buy?' she says.

"'A big chestnut colt by Calabash, dam Mary Goodloe,' I says. 'They tell me you own him.'

"'Oh, I can't sell him!' she says, backin' towards the door. 'No one has ever ridden him but me.'

"'Is he fast?' I asks her.

"'Of course,' she says.

"'Is he mannered?' I asks.

"'Perfectly,' she says.

"'He ain't never seen a barrier, I suppose?' I says.

"'He's broken to the barrier,' she says then.

"'Who schools him?' I says. 'You tells me nobody's been on him but you—'

"'I schooled him at the barrier with the other two-year-olds,' she says.

"'Whee!' I says. 'You must be able to ride some.'

"'I'd be ashamed of myself if I couldn't,' she says.

"'Are you sure you won't sell him?' I asks her.

"'Positive,' she says, 'n' I see she means it.

"'What you goin' to do with him?' I says. 'Don't you know it's wicked not to give that colt a chance to show what he can do?'

"'I know it is,' she says. 'But I have no money for training expenses.'

"I studies a minute, 'n' all of a sudden it comes to me. 'You were just achin' to help this little dame a while ago,' I says to myself. 'Here's a chance . . . be a sport!' The colt might make good, 'n' she could use a thousand or so awful easy.

"'Miss Goodloe,' I says out loud, 'I might as well tell you I'm in love with that colt.' She gives me a real sweet smile.

"'Isn't he a darling?' she says, her face lightin' up.

"'That isn't the way I'd put it,' I says, 'but I guess we mean the same. Now, I'm a race-hoss trainer. You read these letters from people I'm workin' fur, 'n' then I'll tell you what I want to do.' I fishes out a bunch of letters from my pocket 'n' she sets down on the steps 'n' begins to read 'em solemn as owls.

"'Why do they call you Blister?' she asks, lookin' up from a letter.

"'That's a nickname,' I says.

"'Oh,' she says, 'n' goes on readin'. When she gets through she hands the letters to me. 'They seem to have a lot of confidence in you, Blis—Mr. Jones,' she says.

"'Stick to Blister,' I says, ''n' I'll always come when I'm called.'

"'Very well, Blister,' she says. 'Now, why did you wish me to read those letters?'

"'I asks you to read them letters, because I got a hunch that colt's a winner, 'n' I want to take a chance on him,' I says. 'I got a string of hosses at New Awlins—now, you let me ship that colt down there 'n' I'll get him ready. I'll charge you seventy-five a month to be paid out his winnings. If he don't win—no charge. Is it a go?' She don't say nothin' fur quite a while. 'I sees a dozen hossmen I knows over at the sale,' I says. 'If you want recommends I can get any of 'em to come over 'n' speak to you about me.'

"'No, I feel that you are trustworthy,' she says, 'n' goes to studyin' some more. 'What I should like to know,' she says after while, 'is this: Do trainers make a practise of taking horses at the same terms you have just offered me?'

"'Sure they do,' I lies, lookin' her in the eye. 'Any trainer'll take a chance on a promisin' colt.'

"'Are you certain?' she asks me, earnest.

"'Yes'm, dead certain,' I says. She don't say nothin' fur maybe five minutes, then she gets up 'n' looks at me steady.

"'You may take him,' she says, 'n' walks into the house.

"I finds Uncle Jake 'n' eases him two bucks. It sure helps his rheumatism. He gets as spry as a two-year-old. He tells me there's a train at nine that evenin'. I sends him to the depot to fix it so I can take the colt to Loueyville in the express car, 'n' he says he'll get back quick as he can. I hunts up Peewee, but he's goin' to stay all night, 'cause the yearlin's won't sell till next day. . . .

"The sun's goin' down when we starts fur the depot, Uncle Jake drivin', 'n' me settin' behind, leadin' the colt. The sunlight's red, 'n' when it hits that chestnut colt he shines like copper. Say, but he was some proud peacock!

"I sends word to Miss Goodloe we're comin', 'n' she's waitin' at the gate. The colt nickers when he sees her, 'n' she comes 'n' takes the lead strap from me. Then she holds up her finger at the colt.

"'Now, Boy-baby!' she says. 'Everything depends on you—you're all mammy has in the world . . . will you do your best for her sake?' The colt paws 'n' arches his neck. 'See, he says he will!' she says to me.

"'What's his name?' I asks her.

"'Oh, dear, he hasn't any!' she says. 'I've always called him Boy-baby.'

"'He can't race under that,' I says.

"'Between now and the time he starts I'll think of a name for him,' she says. 'Do you really believe he can win?'

"'They tell me his dam wins twenty thousand the first year she raced,' I says.

"'He'd be our salvation if he did that,' she says.

"'There's a name,' I says. 'Call him Salvation!' She says over it two or three times.

"'That's not a bad racing name, is it?' she asks me.

"'No'm,' I says. 'That's a good name.'

"'Very well, Boy-baby,' she says to the colt. 'I christen thee Salvation, with this lump of sugar. That's a fine name! Always bear it bravely.' She puts her arms around the colt's neck 'n' kisses him on the nose. Then she hands me the lead strap 'n' steps aside. 'Good-by, and good luck!' she says.

"When we turns the bend, way down the road, she's still standin' there watchin' us . . .

"I sends the colt down with a swipe, 'n' he's been at the track a week when I gets to New Awlins. The boys have begun to talk 'bout him already, he's such a grand looker. He don't give me no trouble at all. He's quiet 'n' kind 'n' trustin'. Nothin' gets him excited, 'n' I begins to be afraid he'll be a sluggard. It don't take me long to see he won't do fur the sprints—distance is what he likes. He's got a big swingin' gallop that sure fools me at first. He never seems to be tryin' a lick. When he's had two months prep. I has my exercise-boy let him down fur a full mile. Man! he just gallops in forty flat! Then I know I've got somethin'!

"His first race I'm as nervous as a dame. I don't bet a dollar on him fur fear I'll queer it. Anyway, he ain't a good price—you can't keep him under cover, he's too flashy-lookin'.

"Well, he comes home alone, just playin' along, the jock lookin' back at the bunch.

"'How much has he got left?' I says to the jock after the race.

"'Him!' says the jock. 'Enough to beat anybody's hoss!'

"I starts him the next week, 'n' he repeats, but it ain't till his third race that I know fur sure he's a great hoss, with a racin' heart.

"Sweeney has the mount, 'n' he don't get him away good—the colt's layin' a bad seventh at the quarter. Banjo's out in front, away off—'n' she's a real good mare. That pin-head Sweeney don't make a move till the stretch, then he tries to come from seventh all at once . . . 'n' by God, he does it! That colt comes from nowhere to the Banjo mare while they're goin' an eighth! The boy on Banjo goes to the bat, but the colt just gallops on by 'n' breezes in home.

"'You bum!' I says to Sweeney. 'What kind of a trip do you call that? Did you get off 'n' shoot a butsy at the stretch bend?'

"'If I has a match I would,' says Sweeney. 'I kin smoke it easy, 'n' then back in ahead of them turtles.'

"I know then the colt's good enough fur the stakes, 'n' I writes Miss Goodloe to see if I can use the fourteen hundred he's won to make the first payments. She's game as a pebble, 'n' says to stake him the limit. So I enters him from New Awlins to Pimlico.

"I've had all kinds of offers fur the colt, but I always tell 'em nothin' doin'. One day a lawyer named Jack Dillon, who owns a big stock farm near Lexington, comes to me 'n' says he wants to buy him.

"'He ain't fur sale,' I tells him.

"'Everything's for sale at a price,' he says. 'Now I want that colt worse than I do five thousand. What do you say?'

"'I ain't sayin' nothin',' I says.

"'How does eight thousand look to you?' he says.

"'Big,' I says. 'But you'll have to see Miss Goodloe at Goodloe, Kentucky, if you want this colt.'

"Oh, General Goodloe's daughter,' he says. 'Does she own him? When I go back next week I'll drop over and see her.'

"Well, Salvation starts in the Crescent City Derby, 'n' when he comes under the wire Miss Goodloe's five thousand bucks better off. He wins another stake, 'n' then I ship him with the rest of my string to Nashville. The second night we're there, here comes Jack Dillon to the stall with a paper bag in his hand.

"'You didn't get the colt?' I says to him.

"'No,' he says. 'I didn't get anything . . . I lost something.'

"'What?' I says.

"'Never mind what,' he says. 'Here, put this bag of sugar where I can get at it. She told me to feed him two lumps a day.'

"After that he comes every evenin' 'n' gives the colt sugar, but he's poor company. He just stands lookin' at the colt. Half the time he don't hear what I say to him.

"The colt wins the Nashville Derby, 'n' then I ships him to Loueyville for the Kentucky. We want him to win that more'n all the rest, but as luck goes, he ketches cold shippin', 'n' he can't start.

"Miss Goodloe comes over to Loueyville one mawnin' to see him. She gets through huggin' him after while, 'n' sets down in a chair by the stall door.

"'Now, start at the beginning and tell me everything,' she says.

"So I tells her every move the colt makes since I has him.

"'How did he happen to catch cold?' she asks.

"'Constitution undermined,' I says.

"'Oh! How dreadful!' she says. 'What caused it?'

"'Sugar,' I says, never crackin' a smile.

"She flushes up, 'n' I see she knows what I mean, but she don't ask no more questions. Before she leaves, Miss Goodloe tells me she'll come to Cincinnati if the colt's well enough to start in the Latonia Derby.

"I ships to Cincinnati. About noon derby day I'm watchin' the swipes workin' on the colt. He's favorite fur the Latonia 'n' there's mebby a hundred boobs in front of the stall rubberin' at him.

"'Please let dis lady pass,' I hears some one say, 'n' here comes Liza helpin' Miss Goodloe through the crowd. When Liza sees me I ducks 'n' holds up my arm like I'm dodgin' somethin'. She grins till her mouth looks like a tombstone factory.

"'I clean fohgot to bring dat pokah wid me,' she says. 'Hyar you is, Miss Sally.'

"I don't hardly know Miss Goodloe. There's nothin' like race day to get a dame goin'. Her eyes are shinin' 'n' her cheeks are pink, 'n' she don't look more'n sixteen.

"'Why, Boy-baby,' she says to the colt, 'you've grown to be such a wonderful person I can't believe it's you!' The colt knows it's race day 'n' he don't pay much attention to her. 'Oh, Boy-baby!' says Miss Goodloe, 'I'm afraid you've had your head turned . . . you don't even notice your own mammy!'

"'His head ain't turned, it's full of race,' I says to her. He'll come down to earth after he gets that mile-'n'-a-quarter under his belt.'

"When the bugle blows, Miss Goodloe asks me to stay in her box with her while the derby's run. There's twenty thousand people there 'n' I guess the whole bunch has bet on the colt, from the way it sounds when the hosses parade past. You can't hear nothin' but 'Salva-a-tion! Oh, you Salva-a-tion!'

"They get a nice break all in a line, but when they come by the stand the first time, the colt's layin' at the rail a len'th in front, fightin' fur his head.

"'Salva-a-tion!' goes up from the stands in one big yell.

"'There he goes!' hollers some swipe across the track, 'n' then everything is quiet.

"Miss Goodloe's got her fingers stuck into my arm till it hurts. But that don't bother me.

"'Isn't it wonderful?' she says, but the pink's gone out of her cheeks. She's real pale . . .

"They never get near the colt. . . . He comes home alone with that big easy, swingin' gallop of his, 'n' goes under the wire still fightin' fur his head.

"Then that crowd goes plumb crazy! Men throws their hats away, 'n' dances around, yellin' till they can't whisper! Miss Goodloe is shakin' so I has to hold her up.

"'Isn't he grand? How would you like to own him?' a woman in the next box says to her.

"'I'd love it,' says Miss Goodloe, 'n' busts out cryin'. 'You'll think I'm an awful baby!' she says to me.

"'I don't mind them kind of tears,' I says.

"'Neither do I,' she says, laughin', 'n' dabbin' at her face with a dinky little hankerchiff.

"I wait till they lead the colt out in front of the stand, 'n' put the floral horseshoe round his neck, then I takes Miss Goodloe down to shake hands with the jock.

"'How do you like him?' she says to the jock.

"'Well, ma'am,' he says, 'I've ridden all the good ones, but he's the best hoss I ever has under me!'

"'What's the record fur this race?' I yells across the track to the timer. He points down at the time hung up.

"'That's it!' he hollers back.

"'Didn't he do it easy?' says the jock to me.

"There's no use to tell you what Salvation done to them Eastern hosses; everybody knows about that. It got so the ginnies would line up in a bunch, every time he starts, 'n' holler: 'They're off—there he goes!' They does it regular, 'n' pretty soon the crowds get next 'n' then everybody does it. He begins to stale off at Pimlico, so I ships him to Miss Goodloe, 'n' writes her to turn him out fur three or four months.

"It ain't a year from the time we leaves Miss Goodloe standin' in the road till then. Salvation wins his every start. He's copped off forty thousand bucks. I guess that's goin' some!

"When the season closes I goes through Kentucky on my way South, 'n' I takes a jump over from Loueyville to see the colt. Miss Goodloe's bought a hundred acres around her little house, 'n' the colt's turned out in a nice bluegrass field. We're standin' watchin' him, when she puts somethin' in my pocket. I fishes it out 'n' it's a check fur five thousand bucks.

"'I've been paid what's comin' to me,' I says. 'Nothin' like this goes.'

"'Oh, yes, it does!' she says. 'I have investigated since you told me that story. Trainers do not pay expenses on other people's horses. Now, put that back in your pocket or I will be mortally offended.'

"'I don't need it,' I says.

"'Neither do I,' she says. 'I haven't told you—guess what I've been offered for Salvation?'

"'I give it up,' I says.

"'Fifty thousand dollars,' she says. 'What do you think of that?'

"'Are you goin' to sell?' I asks her.

"'Certainly not,' she says.

"'He'll earn twice that in the stud,' I says. 'Who makes you the offer—Mr. Dillon?'

"'No, a New York man,' she says. 'I guess Mr. Dillon has lost interest in him.'

"I guess he hasn't,' I says. 'I seen him at Pimlico, 'n' he was worse 'n ever.'

"'Did—did he still feed him sugar?' she says, but she don't look at me while she's gettin' it out.

"'You bet he did,' I says.

"'Shall you see him again?' she asks me.

"'Yes'm, I'll see him at New Awlins,' I says.

"'You may tell him,' she says, her face gettin' pink, 'that as far as my horse is concerned I haven't changed my mind.'

"On the way back to the house I gets to thinkin'.

"'I'm goin' round to the kitchen 'n' say hello to Aunt Liza,' I says to Miss Goodloe.

"Liza's glad to see me this time—mighty glad.

"'Hyah's a nice hot fried cake fo' you, honey,' she says.

"'This ain't no fried cake,' I says. 'This is a doughnut.'

"'You ain' tryin' to tell me what a fried cake is, is you?' she says.

"'Aunt Liza,' I says to her while I'm eatin' the doughnut, 'I sees Mr. Jack Dillon after he's been here, 'n' he acts like he'd had a bad time. Did you take a poker to him, too?'

"'No, sah,' she says. 'Miss Sally tended to his case.'

"'It's too bad she don't like him,' I says.

"'Who say she doan' like him?' says Liza. 'He come a sto'min' round hyah like he gwine to pull de whole place up by de roots an' transport hit ovah Lexington way. Fust he's boun' fo' to take dat hoss what's done win all dem good dollahs. Den his min' flit f'om dat to Miss Sally, an' he's aimin' to cyar her off like she was a 'lasses bar'l or a yahd ob calico. Who is dem Dillons, anyway? De Goodloes owned big lan' right hyar in Franklin County when de Dillons ain' nothin' but Yankee trash back in Maine or some other outlan'ish place! Co'se we sends him 'bout his bisniss—him an' his money! Ef he comes roun' hyar, now we's rich again, an' sings small fo' a while. Miss Sally mighty likely to listen to what he got to say—she so kindly dat a-way.'

"At the depot in Goodloe that night I writes a wire to Jack Dillon. 'If you still want Salvation better come to Goodloe,' is what the wire says. I signs it 'n' sends it 'n' takes the train fur New Awlins.

"The colt ruptures a tendon not long after that, so he never races no more, 'n' I ain't never been to Goodloe since."

Blister yawned, lay back on the grass and pulled his hat over his face.

"Is Salvation alive now?' I asked.

"Sure he's alive!" The words come muffled from beneath the hat. "He's at the head of Judge Dillon's stock farm over near Lexington."

"I'm surprised Miss Goodloe sold him," I said.

"She don't . . . sell him," Blister muttered drowsily. "Mrs. Dillon . . . still . . . owns him."



A TIP IN TIME

Blister was silent as we left the theater. I had chosen the play because I had fancied it would particularly appeal to him. The name part—a characterization of a race-horse tout—had been acceptably done by a competent young actor. The author had hewn as close to realism as his too clever lines would permit. There had been a wealth of Blister's own vernacular used on the stage during the evening, and I had rather enjoyed it all. But Blister, it was now evident, had been disappointed.

"You didn't like it?" I said tentatively, as I steered him toward the blazing word "Rathskeller," a block down the street.

"Oh, I've seed worse shows," was the unenthusiastic reply. "I can get an earful of that kind of chatter dead easy without pryin' myself loose from any kale," he added.

I saw where the trouble lay. The terse expressive jargon of the race track, its dry humor just beneath its hard surface, might delight the unsophisticated, but not Blister. To him it lacked in novelty.

"I ain't been in one of these here rats ketchers fur quite a while," said Blister, as we descended the steps beneath the flambuoyant sign. "Do you go to shows much?" he asked, when two steins were between us on the flemish oak board.

"Not a great deal," I replied. "I did dramatics—wrote up shows—for two years and that rather destroyed my enjoyment of the theater."

"I got you," said Blister. "Seein' so much of it spoils you fur it. That's me, too. I won't cross the street to see a show when I'm on the stage."

Had he suddenly announced himself king of the Cannibal Islands I would have looked and felt about as then. I gazed at him with dropping jaw.

"No, I ain't bugs!" he grinned, as he saw my expression. "I'm on the stage quite a while. Ain't I never told you?"

"You certainly have not," I said emphatically.

"I goes on the stage just because I starts to cuss a dog I owns one day," said Blister. "It's the year they pull off one of these here panic things, and believe me the kale just fades from view! It you borrow a rub-rag, three ginnies come along to bring it back when you're through. If you happens to mention you ain't got your makin's with you, the nearest guy to you'll call the police. They wouldn't have a hoss trained that could run a mile in nothin'.

"A dog out on grass don't cost but two bucks a month. It seems like the men I'm workin' fur all remembers this at once. When I'm through followin' shippin' instructions I'm down to one mutt, 'n' I owns him myself. He's some hoss—I don't think. He's got a splint big as a turkey egg that keeps him ouchy in front half the time, 'n' his heart ain't in the right place. I've filled his old hide so full of hop you could knock his eyes off with a club, tryin' to make him cop, but he won't come through—third is the best he'll do.

"One day about noon I'm standin' lookin' in the stall door, watchin' him mince over his oats. They ain't nothin' good about this dog—not even his appetite. I ain't had a real feed myself fur three days, 'n' when I sees this ole counterfeit mussin' over his grub I opens up on him.

"'Why, you last year's bird's nest!' I says to him. 'What th' hell right have you got to be fussy with your eats? They ain't a oat in that box but what out-classes you—they've all growed faster'n you can run! The only thing worse'n you is a ticket on you to win. If I pulls your shoes off 'n' has my choice between you 'n' them—I takes the shoes. If I wouldn't be pinched fur it I gives you to the first nut they lets out of the bughouse—you sour-bellied-mallet-headed-yellow pup! You cross between a canary 'n' a mud-turtle!'

"That gets me sort-a warmed up, 'n' then I begins to really tell this dog what the sad sea waves is sayin'. When I can't think of nothin' more to call him, I stops.

"'Outside of that he's all right, ain't he?' says some one behind me.

"'No,' I says, 'he has other faults besides.'

"I turns round 'n' there's a fat guy with a cigar in his face. He's been standin' there listenin'. He's got a chunk of ice stuck in his chest that you have to look at through smoked glasses. He's got another one just as big on his south hook. Take him all 'n' all he looks like the real persimmon.

"'Do you own him?' says the fat guy.

"'You've had no call to insult a stranger,' I says. 'But it's on me—I owns him.'

"'I'm sorry you've got such a bad opinion of him,' he says. 'I was thinkin' of buyin' him.'

"I looks around fur this guy's keeper—they ain't nobody in sight.

"'This ain't such a bad hoss,' I says. 'Them remarks you hears don't mean nothin'. They're my regular pet names fur him.'

"'I'd like to be around once when you talk to a bad one,' says the guy. 'Now look a-here,' he says. 'I'll buy this horse, but get over all thoughts of makin' a sucker out of me. What do you want for him? If you try to stick me up—I'm gone. The woods is full of this kind. Let's hear from you!'

"'Fur a hundred I throws in a halter,' I says.

"'You've sold one,' says the guy, 'n' peels off five yellow men from a big roll.

"When I've got the kale safe in my clothes, I gets curious.

"'What do you want with this hoss?' I says.

"'He's to run on rollers in a racing scene,' he says.

"'Well,' I says, 'some skates has rollers on 'em, maybe they'll help this one. God knows he ain't any good with just legs!'

"'He's plenty good enough for his act,' says the guy. 'And say, I want another one like him, and a man to go on the road with 'em. Can you put me wise?'

"'How much would be crowded towards the party you want, Saturday nights?' I says.

"'Twenty dollars and expenses,' says he.

"'Make it thirty,' I says. 'Travelin's hard on them that loves their home.'

"'We'll split it,' he says. 'Twenty-five's the word.'

"'My time's yours,' I says.

"'How about the other horse?' says the fat guy.

"'You'll own him in eight minutes,' I says. 'Stay here with Edwin Booth till I get back.'

"I hustles down the line 'n' finds Peewee Simpson washin' out bandages—that's what he'd come to.

"'You still got that sorrel hound?' I says to him.

"'Nope,' says Peewee. 'He's got me. I'm takin' in washin' to support him.'

"'Brace yourself fur a shock,' I says. 'I'll give you real money fur him.'

"Peewee looks at me fur a minute like you done a while ago.

"'Don't wake me up!' he says. 'I must—' then he stops 'n' takes another slant at me. 'Say!' he says, 'I'll bet you've got next! I ain't told you yet—who put you hep?'

"'Hep to what?' I says.

"'Why, this hoss works a mile in forty yesterday,' says Peewee. 'I'm goin' to cop with him next week.'

"'Your work's coarse,' I says. 'The only way that dog goes a mile in forty is in the baggage coach ahead. I'm in a hurry! Here's a hundred fur the pup. Don't break a leg gettin' him out of the stall.'

"I don't stop to answer Peewee's questions, but leads the hoss back to the fat guy.

"'Here's Salvini,' I says. 'He cost you a hundred.'

"'S. R. O. for you,' says he, 'n' slips me the hundred. 'Now, take him and Edwin Booth to the livery-stable round the corner from the Alhambra Theater. Come to the Gilsey House at six o'clock and ask for me. My name is Banks.'

"'There's class to that name,' I says. 'It sure sounds good to me.'

"'Keep on your toes like you've done so far and it'll be as good as it sounds,' says he.

"That evenin' Banks tells me the dogs he's bought is fur a show called A Blue Grass Belle. A dame is to ride one of 'em in the show, 'n' I'm to ride the other.

"'I've arranged to have the apparatus set up back of the livery-stable,' says Banks, 'so you can rehearse the horses for their act. When they know their parts I'll bring Pixley around and you can work the act together. She was a rube before she hit the big town and she says she can ride.'

"Say, this dingus fur the hosses to run on is there like a duck. The guy that thinks it up has a grand bean! You leads a hoss on to it 'n' when it's ready you gives him the word. He starts to walk off, nothin' doin', he ain't goin' nowhere. You fans him with the bat. 'I'll be on my way,' he says. But he ain't got a chance—the faster he romps the faster the dingus rolls out from under him. He can run a forty shot, 'n' he don't go no further 'n I can throw a piano!

"After I've worked both dogs on the dingus fur a week or so, I tells Banks they know the game—'n' believe me, they did! Why, them ole hounds got so they begins to prance when they see the machine. They'd lay down 'n' ramble till they dropped if I lets 'em. They liked it fine!

"'I'll send Pixley around to-morrow,' says Banks. 'I want you to teach her the jockey's crouch when she's on her horse.'

"Next mawnin' I'm oilin' up the dingus when a chicken pokes her little head out the back door of the livery-stable.

"'Hello, kid,' she says to me.

"'Hello, girlie,' I says back.

"'Miss Pixley, if you please,' she says.

"'All right,' I says. ''N' while we're at it Mr. Jones'll suit me.'

"'Fade away,' she says, 'n' I see she's got a couple of dimples. 'Mr. Jones don't suit you.'

"'Make it Blister, then,' I says.

"'You're on,' she says. 'And you can stick to girlie.'

"Say, she was a great little dame; she makes a hit with me the first dash out of the box. When it comes to ridin' she's game as a wasp. She has on a long coat, 'n' I don't see what's underneath.

"'Banks tells me you ride like a jock in the show,' I says. 'You can't cut the mustard with that rig on.'

"'Sure not, Simple Simon!' she says. 'Do you think this grows on me?' She sheds the coat, 'n' I see she's got on leggins 'n' a pair of puffy pants.

"I throws her on to Salvini 'n' he begins to prance around, me holdin' him by the head.

"'Whoa, you big bum!' I says to him.

"'Quit knocking my horse,' she says. 'Let go of him and see if I care.'

"I turns him loose 'n' she lets him jump a few times 'n' then rides him on to the machine. I see she knows her business so I stands beside her 'n' makes her sit him like she ought. It don't take her no time to get wise. Pretty soon she's clear over with a hand on each side of his withers, 'n' him goin' like a stake hoss.

"'That's the dope!' I hollers. I has to yell 'cause the ole hound is makin' a fierce racket on the machine.

"'I feel like a monkey on a stick,' she hollers back, but she don't look like one. Her hair's shook loose, her eyes is shinin', 'n' them dimples of her's is the life of the party.

"'So long, professor,' she says to me when she's goin'. 'Much obliged for the lesson. Our act will be a scream.'

"Not long after that they moves the dingus over to the theater, 'n' Banks tells me to bring the hosses over at three o'clock the next day. I'm there to the minute, but nobody shows up 'n' I stands out in front with the dogs fur what seems like a week. All of a sudden a tall pale guy, who ain't got no coat on, comes bustin' out of the entrance.

"'Where in hell and damnation have you been with these skates?' he says. His hair is stickin' up on end 'n' he's got a wild look in his eye.

"'Batty as a barn,' I says to myself, 'n' gets behind Edwin Booth.

"'Speak up!' says the pale guy. 'Before I do murder!' I looks up 'n' down the street—not a cop in sight.

"'I'm a gone fawn skin,' I says to myself, but I thinks I'll try to soothe him till help comes.

"'That's all right, pal, that's all right,' I says to him. 'These pretty hosses are in a show. Did you ever see a show? I seen a show once that—'

"'My poor boy,' he says, breakin' in. 'I didn't know! What got into Banks?' he says, sort-a to hisself. 'Try and remember,' he says to me, 'weren't you told to bring these pretty horses here at three o'clock?'

"That puts me jerry, 'n' I sure am sore when I thinks how he gets my goat.

"'Why, you big stiff!' I says. 'Ain't I been standin' here with these plugs fur a week? If you wants 'em, why don't you come 'n' tell me to lead 'em in? Do you think I'm a mind-reader?'

"His voice gets wild again.

"'Lead 'em in where?' he says. 'Through the lobby? Do you want to buy 'em tickets at the box-office? Will you have orchestra chairs for 'em or will front-row balcony do? Now beat it up that alley to the stage entrance, you doddering idiot!' he says. 'You've held up this rehearsal two hours!'

"Say, I've made some fierce breaks in my time, but that was the limit. It goes to show what a sucker anybody is at a new game. But at that, a child would have knowed those dogs didn't go in the front way.

"When I gets on to the stage with the hosses, there's guys 'n' dames standin' around all over it. The chicken comes 'n' shakes my mitt.

"'Say, kid,' she says, 'you'll hit the street for this sure. Where have you been?'

"Before I can tell her, here comes the pale guy down the aisle.

"'Everybody off stage!' he hollers. The bunch beats it to the sides. 'Now,' says the pale guy. 'We'll start the third act. Pixley,' he says to the chicken, 'I'll read your lines. You explain to Daniel Webster his cue, lines and business for your scene. Charlie, hold those horses.'

"The chicken starts to wise me up like he tells her. I'm a jock in the play, 'n' I has one line to say. 'He'll win, sir, never fear,' is the line. What another guy says to me before I says it she calls a cue, 'n' I learns that, too. I don't remember much what goes on that first day. I gets through my stunt O. K., except what I has to say—somehow, I can't get it off my chest louder'n a he-mouse can squeak.

"'If any one told me a horse would win, in that tone of voice,' says the pale guy to me, 'I'd go bet against him!' He keeps me sayin' it over 'n' over till pretty soon you can hear me nearly three feet away. 'That'll have to do for today,' says the pale guy. 'Everybody here at two o'clock to-morrow. I'll have the lobby swept out for your entrance, Daniel Webster,' he says to me.

"I tries the back door fur a change next day and they rehearse all afternoon. I'm here to say that pale guy is some dispenser of remarks. At plain 'n' fancy cussin' he's a bear.

"He's got the whole bunch buffaloed, except the chicken. She hands it back to him when it comes too strong.

"'Pixley,' he says to her once, 'your directions call for a quick exit. The audience will be able to stand it if you get off stage inside of ten minutes. Try and remember you are not stalling a Johnny with a fond farewell in this scene.'

"'That's a real cute crack,' says the chicken. 'But you've got your dates mixed. I can shoo a Johnny, even if he's in the profession,' she says, lookin' at him, 'quicker than a bum stage manager can fire a little chorus girl.'

"The pale guy's name is De Mott. He looks at her hard fur a minute, then he swallers the dose.

"'Proceed with the act,' he says.

"The show goes great the first night, far as I can see, but De Mott ain't satisfied.

"'It's dragging! It's dragging!' he keeps sayin' to everybody.

"A minute before I has to walk out on the stage, leadin' Edwin Booth, I can't think of nothin' but what I has to say. I gets one look at all them blurry faces, 'n' I goes into a trance.

"'More than life depends on this race!' I hears a voice say, about a mile off. That's my cue, but all I can remember is to tell him it's a cinch, 'n' say it loud.

"'The dog cops sure as hell!' I hollers.

"After the act De Mott rushes over tearin' at his collar like it's chokin' him.

"'Don't you even know the difference between a horse and a dog?' he yells at me.

"'If you sees this hound cough it up in the stretch often as I have, you calls him a dog yourself,' I says.

"I don't furget again after that, 'n' things go along smooth as silk from then on.

"The show runs along fur a week, but it don't make good.

"'The waving corn for this outfit!' says the chicken to me, Saturday night. 'The citizens of Peoria, Illinois, will have a chance to lamp my art before long.'

"She's got it doped right. We hit the road in jig-time. Banks makes a speech before we leaves.

"'Ladies and gentlemen,' he says, 'I thank you for your good work. Mr. De Mott will represent me on the road. I hope you will be a happy family, and I wish you success.'

"Outside of the chicken, I'm not stuck on the bunch. They're as cheap a gang as I'm ever up against. This De Mott guy is a cheese right, but he sure thinks he's the original bell-wether. He's strong fur the chicken, 'n' this makes the others sore at her. They don't have much to do with me neither, 'n' she don't fall fur De Mott, so her 'n' me sees each other a lot.

"She's a bug over hosses 'n' the track. She wants me to tell her all about trainin' a hoss 'n' startin' a hoss 'n' fifty other things besides.

"'I always lose,' she says. 'But then, I'm a rummy. Can you tell which horse is going to win, Blister?'

"'Sometimes,' I says.

"'When you go back to the track will you put me wise so I can win?' she says.

"'You bet I will, girlie!' I says. 'Any time I cut loose a good thing you gets the info right from the feed-box.'

"De Mott keeps noticin' us stickin' together. He's talkin' to her once when I'm passin' by.

"'He's on the square,' she says pretty loud. 'And that's more than you can say about a lot of people I know.'

"'That big ham was trying to knock you,' she says to me afterwards.

"We makes a bunch of towns. Nothin' very big—burgs like Erie 'n' Grand Rapids 'n' Dayton. Finally we hits St. Louis fur a two weeks' stand. This suits me. I'm sure tired of shippin' the dogs every few days.

"One night the chicken stops me as I'm takin' the pups to their kennel.

"'Come back for me, Blister,' she says, 'when you get your horses put up. There's a Johnny in this town that's pestering the life out of me. He wants me to go to 'Frisco with him.'

"When I gets back to the theater I sees a green buzz-wagon at the stage door with a guy 'n' a shofe in it.

"The chicken has hold of my arm comin' out of the door, but she lets go of it 'n' then steps up straight to the buzz-wagon.

"'I can't keep my engagement with you this evening,' she says. 'My brother's in town and I'm going to be with him.'

"'Bring your brother along,' says the guy, 'n' I know by that he's got it bad.

"'I can't very well,' she says. 'We have some family matters to talk over. I'll see you some other evening.'

"The very next night a bunch of scenery tumbles over. The race is goin' on, 'n' Edwin Booth is layin' down to it right. A piece of scenery either falls under his feet or else jims the machine, I never knows which, anyhow, all of a sudden the hoss gets real footin'. Bingo! We're on our way like we're shot out of a gun. We go through all the scenery on that side 'n' Edwin Booth does a flop when he hits the brick wall at the end of the stage. The ole hound ain't even scratched. I ain't hurt neither.

"The curtain rings down 'n' De Mott comes a-lopin' to where I'm gettin' a painted grand-stand off of Edwin Booth's front legs.

"'In heaven's name what were you trying to do?' he says.

"'I was just practisin' one of them quick exits you're always talkin' about,' I says.

"'All right,' he says. 'Keep on practising till you come to that door! Follow on down the street till you reach the river and then jump in!'

"'I guess I'm fired—is that it?' I says.

"'You're a good guesser,' says De Mott.

"The chicken has come over by this time.

"'Are you hurt, Blister?' she says.

"'Not a bit, girlie,' I says, 'n' starts to go change my clothes.

"'Wait till I give you an order on the box-office for your money,' says De Mott.

"'Well, get busy,' I says to him. 'I've stood it around where you are about as long as is healthy.'

"'What's that?' says the chicken to De Mott. 'You don't mean to tell me you fired him!'

"'I don't mean to tell you anything that's none of your business,' says De Mott. 'Go dress for the next act!'

"'Not on your life!' she says. 'You can't fire him; it wasn't his fault! I'll write Banks a lot I know about you!'

"De Mott pulls out his watch.

"'I'll give you just one minute to start for your dressing-room,' he says to her.

"The chicken knocks the watch out of his hand.

"'That for your old turnip and you, too!' she says.

"'You're fired!' yells De Mott.

"'Oh, no, I ain't!' says the chicken. 'That's my way of breaking a contract and a watch at the same time. You needn't write an order for me,' she says. 'I'm overdrawn a week now.'

"When we're leavin', after we gets our street clothes on, De Mott stops us.

"'There's a way you can both get back,' he says to the chicken.

"'When I sell out,' says she, 'it'll be to a real man for real money, not to a cheap ham-fat for a forty-dollar job.'

"The chicken won't stay at the hotel where the bunch is that night, so we both moves over to another. When we pays our bill I have seven bucks left 'n' she has six.

"'We'll decide what to do in the morning, Blister,' she says. 'I've got a headache, so I think I'll hit the hay.'

"She goes to her room 'n' I sets 'n' studies how this is goin' to wind up, till three o'clock.

"We has breakfast together the next mawnin' about noon.

"'Well,' says the chicken, 'I've been up against it before, but this is tougher than usual. Everybody I know is broke or badly bent.'

"'Same here,' I says.

"'You poor kid!' she says. 'What'll you do?'

"'Don't worry none about me,' I says. 'I can get to New Awlins somehow—they're racin' down there. But what about you?'

"'If I could get back East,' she says, 'I know a floor-walker at Macy's who'll stake me to a job till I can get placed.'

"'You stick around here,' I says, when we're through eatin'. 'I'll go out 'n' give the burg a lookin' over.'

"'I've got that Johnny's phone number,' she says. 'I wonder if he'd stand for a touch without getting too fresh?'

"I goes to the desk 'n' wigwags the clerk. He's a fair-haired boy with a alabaster dome.

"'Are they runnin' poolrooms in the village?' I says.

"'Yes, sir,' he says. 'Pool and billiard room just across the street.'

"'Much obliged,' I says. I see the tomtit ain't got a man's size chirp in him, so I goes outside 'n' hunts up a bull.

"'Can you wise me up to a pony bazaar in this neck of the woods?' I says to him.

"'Go chase yourself,' he says. 'What do you think I am—a capper?'

"'Be a sport,' I says. 'Come through with the info—I ain't a live one. I'm a chalker, 'n' I'm flat. I'm lookin' fur a job.'

"He sizes me up fur quite a while.

"'Well,' he says at last, 'I guess if they trim you they'll earn it. Go down two blocks, then half a block to your right and take a squint at the saloon with the buffalo head over the bar.'

"I finds the saloon easy enough.

"'Make it a tall one,' I says to the barkeep.

"While I'm lappin' up the drink, a guy walks in 'n' goes through a door at the other end of the booze parlor.

"'Where does that door go to?' I says to the barkeep.

"'It's nothin' but an exit,' he says.

"'That's right in my line,' I says. 'I'll take a chance at it.'

"When I opens the door I hears a telegraph machine goin'.

"'Just like mother used to make,' I says out loud, 'n' follows down a dark hall to the poolroom.

"I watches the New Awlins entries chalked up 'n' I sees a hoss called Tea Kettle in the third race. Now this Tea Kettle ain't a bad pup. He's owned by a couple of wise Ikes who never let him win till the odds are right. Eddie Murphy has this hoss 'n' Duckfoot Johnson's swipin' him.'

"'I wish I knew what they're doin' with that Tea Kettle to-day,' I says to myself, when I've looked 'em all over.

"I've been settin' there fur quite a while when a nigger comes in. I don't pay no attention to him at first, but I happen to see him fish a telegram out of his pocket 'n' look at it.

"'That ole nigger's got some dope,' I says to myself. 'I'll amble over 'n' try to kid it out of him.'

"I mosies over to where he's settin'. He puts the wire in his pocket when he sees me comin'. I sets down beside him 'n' goes to readin' the paper. Pretty soon I folds up the paper 'n' looks at the board.

"'That Tea Kettle might come through,' I says to the ole nigger.

"'Dat ain' likely,' he says. 'He ain' won fo' a coon's aige.'

"'I talks to his swipe not very long ago,' I says, ''n' he tells me he's good.'

"The ole nigger looks at me hard.

"'Whar does you hol' dis convahsation at?' he says.

"'Sheepshead,' I says.

"'Does you reccomember de name ob de swipe?' says the ole nigger.

"'Sure!' I says, 'I've knowed him all my life! His name is Duckfoot Johnson.'

"'Yes, suh!' he says. 'Yes, suh—an' what mought yo' name be?'

"'Blister Jones,' I says.

"'Why, man!' he says, 'I've heard ob you frequen'ly. Ma name am Johnson. Duckfoot is ma boy; hyars a tellegam fum him!'

"He pulls out the wire. 'T. K. in the third,' it says. I looks up at the board—Tea Kettle's twelve-to-one.

"I goes out of that poolroom on the jump 'n' runs all the way to the hotel. The chicken ain't in her room. I falls down-stairs 'n' looks all around—nothin' doin'. All of a sudden I sees her in the telephone booth.

"'Gimme that six bones quick!' I says when I've got the glass door open. She puts her hand over the phone.

"'Here, it's in my bag,' she says.

"I grabs the bag 'n' beats it. I gets the change out on my way back to the poolroom. The third race is still open, 'n' I gets ten bucks straight 'n' two to show on Tea Kettle. Then I goes over where ole man Johnson's settin'.

"'Whar does you go so quick like?' he says.

"'I'm after some coin,' I says, tryin' to ketch my breath. 'I've took a shot at the Tea Kettle hoss.'

"'I has bet on him,' he says, 'to ma fullest reso'ses.'

"'How much you got on?' I says.

"'Foh dollahs,' says ole man Johnson.

"Just then the telegraph begins to click.

"'They're off at New Orle-e-e-ns!' sings the operator. 'King Ja-a-ames first! Eldorado-o-o second! Anvil-l-l third!'

"The telegraph keeps a stutterin' 'n' a stutterin'.

"'Eldorado-o-o at the quarter a length! Anvil-l-l second a length! King Ja-a-ames third!' sings the operator.

"I looks at ole man Johnson. He looks at me.

"'Eldorado-o-o at the half by three lengths! Anvil-l-l second by two lengths! King Ja-a-ames third!' sings the operator.

"I looks at ole man Johnson. He don't look at me. He looks up at the ceilin' 'n' his lips is goin' like he's prayin'. Me? I'm wipin' the sweat off my face.

"'Eldorado-o-o in the stretch a half a length!' sings the operator. 'Anvil-l-l second a nose! Te-e-a Kettle third and coming fast!'

"If I gets a shock from that telegraph wire I don't jump any higher.

"'Howdy, howdy! He's boilin now,' yells ole man Johnson loud enough to bust your ear.

"Then that cussed telegraph stops right off.

"'Wire trouble at New Orleans,' says the operator.

"I sure hopes I never spends no more half-hours like I does then waitin' fur the New Awlins message. I thinks every minute ole man Johnson's goin' to croak if it don't come soon. In about ten years the telegraph begins to work again.

"'The result at New Orle-e-ens!' sings the operator. 'Te-e-ea Kettle wins by five lengths! Eldo—'

"But ole man Johnson lets out such a whoop I don't hear who finishes second 'n' third.

"I hustles up to the chicken's room when I'm back to the hotel. The transom's open when I gets to the door 'n' I hears a guy talkin'.

"'Don't misunderstand me,' he's savin'. 'You know perfectly the money's nothing to me, but why should I cut my own throat? If you'll go West instead of East, everything I have is yours!'

"'I don't misunderstand you,' says the chicken's voice. 'I have you sized up to a dot. I've met hundreds like you!'

"I knocks on the door.

"'Come,' says the chicken, 'n' I walks in. She's standin' with the table between her 'n' a swell-lookin' guy.

"'Mr. Chandler,' she says. 'Let me introduce you to my brother.'

"'How do you do?' says the swell guy. 'You have a charming sister.'

"'She's a great kid,' I says.

"'You don't look much alike,' says the swell guy.

"'She's not my full sister,' I says. 'Our mothers weren't the same.'

"The chicken coughs a couple of times.

"'That explains it,' says the swell guy.

"'Now,' I says to him, 'I hate to tie a can to one of sis's friend, but she's goin' East at six o'clock, 'n' she's got to pack her duds.'

"'Oh, Blister, am I?' says the chicken.

"'Yep, I hears from auntie,' I says, pullin' out the roll 'n' lay in' it on the table.

"The chicken gives a shriek, 'n' starts to hug me right in front of the swell guy.

"'I seem to be dee tro,' says he, 'n' backs out the door.

"'Where did you get the money?' says the chicken, countin' the roll. 'Why! There's over a hundred here!'

"I takes fifty bucks fur myself, 'n' hands her the rest.

"'I cops it at a poolroom,' I says. 'A ten-to-one shot comes through fur me. Now get busy. I'll send fur your trunk in ten minutes.'

"The chicken won't hear of ridin' in a street-car, so we takes a cab like a couple of Trust maggots.

"'I'll buy your ticket 'n' check your trunk fur you,' I says, when we get to the station. 'Where do you want to go? New York?'

"'Anywhere you say,' she says. . .

"I'm standin' there lookin' at her, lettin' this sink into my bean, 'n' she begins to get red.

"'Don't stand there gawking at me!' she says, stampin' her foot. 'Say something!'

"'How about this St. Louis guy?' I says. 'With all his—'

"'Oh, he was only a Johnny,' she says.

"'How about De Mott?' I says.

"'Ugh!' she says, makin' a face.

"I don't say nothin' after that till I has it all thought out. The start looks awful good, but I begins to weaken when I thinks of the finish.

"'You act just suffocated with pleasure,' says the chicken. But I don't pay no attention.

"'You'll be lucky if you gets a job swipin' fur your eats when you hit New Awlins,' I says to myself. 'Wouldn't you look immense with a doll on your staff?'

"'Now, listen,' I says to her, 'how long is this here panic goin' to last?'

"'You can search me,' she says.

"'Well, how long is this hundred goin' to last?' I says.

"'Not long,' she says.

"'That's the answer,' I says. 'Now, you hop a deep sea goin' rattler fur New York while the hoppin' 's good.'

"'But, Blister,' she says, 'at New Orleans you could win lots of money—think how much you've made already—and I could go to the races every day!'

"'Furget it,' I says. 'You think you're a wise girl. Why, you ain't nothin' but a child! A break like I has to-day don't come but seldom. If I cops the coin easy, like you figgers, why am I chambermaid to two dogs in a bum show at twenty-five per? Now slip me the price of a ticket to New York,' I says, 'or I goes 'n' buys it out of my own roll, 'n' then I ain't got enough left to get to New Awlins.'

"She don't say nothin' more, but hands me the dough. I buys her ticket 'n' checks her trunk fur her. She keeps real quiet till her rattler's ready. I kisses her good-by when they calls the train fur New York, 'n' still she don't say nothin'.

"'What's on your mind, girlie?' I says.

"'Nothing much,' she says. 'Only I'm letter perfect in the turnin'-down act, but when it's the other way—I ain't up in my lines.'" . . .

Blister waved to a waiter and I saw there was to be no more.

"Did you ever see her again?" I inquired.

"Now you're askin' questions," said Blister.



TRES JOLIE

The hot inky odors of a newspaper plant took me by the throat during my progress in the whiny elevator to the third floor.

Before attacking the day's editorial I tried to decide whether it was the nerve flicking clash of the linotypes, the pecking chatter of the typewriters, or the jarring rumble of the big cylinder presses that was taking the life out of my work. I was impartial in this, but gave it up.

And then a letter was dropped on the desk before me, and I recognized in the penciled address upon the envelope the unformed hand of Blister Jones.

"Dear Friend," the letter began, and somehow the ache behind my eyes died out as I read. 'I guess you are thinking me dead by this time on account of not hearing from me sooner in answer to yours. Well, this is to show you I am alive and kicking. I guess you have read how good the mare is doing. She is a good mare, as good as her dam. I had some mean luck with her at Nashville by her going lame for me, so she could not start in the big stake, but she is O. K. now. I note what you said about being sick. That is tough. Why don't you come to Louisville and see the mare run in the derby. If you would only bet, I can give you a steer that would put you right and pay all your expenses. Well, this is all for the present.

"Resp.

"Blister Jones.

"P. S. Now, be sure to come as I want you to see the mare. She is sure a good mare."

I laid the letter down with a sigh. The mare referred to was the now mighty Tres Jolie favorite for the Kentucky Derby. I had seen her once when a two-year-old, and I remembered Blister's pride as he told me she was to be placed in his hands by Judge Dillon.

Yes, I would be glad to see "the mare," and I longed for the free sunlit world of which she was a part, as for a tonic. But this was, of course, impossible. So long as hard undiscerning materialism demanded editorials—editorials I must furnish.

"Damn such a pen!" I said aloud, at its first scratch.

"Quite right!" boomed a deep voice. A big gentle hand fell on my shoulder and spun me away from the desk. "See here," the voice went on gruffly, "you're back too soon. We can't afford to take chances with you. Get out of this. The cashier'll fix you up. Don't let me see you around here again till—we have better pens," and he was gone before thanks were possible.

"I'm going to Churchill Downs to cover the derby for a Sunday special!" I sang to the sporting editor as I passed his door.

"The Review of Reviews might use it!" followed me down the hall, and I chuckled as I headed for the cashier's desk.

"Well, well, well!" was Blister's greeting. "Look who's here! I seen your ole specs shinin' in the sun clear down the line!"

I sniffed luxuriously.

"It smells just the same," I said. "Horses, leather and liniment! Where's Tres Jolie?"

"In the second stall," said Blister, pointing. "Wait a minute—I'll have a swipe lead her out. Chick!"—this to a boy dozing on a rickety stool—"if your time ain't too much took up holdin' down that chair, this gentleman 'ud like to take a pike at the derby entry."

Like a polished red-bronze sword leaping from a black velvet scabbard the mare came out of her stall into the sunlight, the boy clinging wildly to the strap. She snorted, tossed her glorious head, and shot her hind feet straight for the sky.

"You, Jane, be a lady now!" yelled the boy, trying to stroke the arching neck.

"Why does he call her Jane?" I asked.

"Stable name," Blister explained. "Don't get too close—she's right on edge!" And after a pause, his eyes shining: "Can you beat her?"

I shook my head, speechless.

"Neither can they!" Blister's hand swept the two-mile circle of stalls that held somewhere within their big curve—the enemy.

The boy at the mare's head laughed joyously.

"They ain't got a chance!" he gloated.

"All right, Chick," said Blister. "Put her up! Hold on!" he corrected suddenly. "Here's the boss!" And I became aware of a throbbing motor behind me. So likewise did Tres Jolie.

"Whoa, Jane! Whoa, darling; it's mammy!" came in liquid tones from the motor.

The rearing thoroughbred descended to earth with slim inquiring ears thrown forward, and I remembered that Blister had described Mrs. Dillon's voice as "good to listen at."

"Look, Virginia, she knows me!" the velvet voice exclaimed.

Another voice, rather heavy for a woman, but with a fascinating drawl in it, answered:

"Perhaps she fancies you have a milk bottle with you. Isn't this the one you and Uncle Jake raised on a bottle?"

"Yass'm, yass, Miss Vahginia, dat's her! Dat's ma Honey-bird!" came in excited tones from an ancient negro, who alighted stiffly from the motor and peered in our direction. As they approached, he held Mrs. Dillon by the sleeve, and I realized that for Uncle Jake the sun would never shine again.

Judge Dillon, a big-boned silent man, I had met. And after the shower of questions poured upon Blister had abated, and the mare had been gentled, petted and given a lump of sugar with a final hug, he presented me to his wife.

"My cousin, Miss Goodloe," said Mrs. Dillon, and I sensed a mass of tawny hair under the motor veil and looked into a pair of blue eyes set wide apart beneath a broad white brow. It was no time for details.

It developed that Miss Goodloe was from Tennessee, that she was visiting the Dillons at Thistle Ridge near Lexington, and that she liked a small book of verses of which I had been guilty. It further developed that Mrs. Dillon had talked me over with an aunt of mine in Cincinnati, that we were mutually devoted to Blister, and that he had described me to her as "the most educated guy allowed loose." This last I learned as Judge Dillon and Blister discussed the derby some distance from us.

"I feel awed and diffident in the presence of such learning," said Miss Goodloe almost sleepily. "Why did I neglect my opportunities at Dobbs Ferry!"

"I would give a good deal to observe you when you felt diffident, Virginia," said Mrs. Dillon, with a laugh like a silver bell. "Uncle Jake!" she called, "we are going now."

"I have heard of Uncle Jake," I said, as the old man felt his way toward us.

"Yes?" said Mrs. Dillon. "He insisted upon coming to see the derby." She dwelt ever so lightly upon the verb, and Uncle Jake caught it.

"No, Miss Sally," he explained, "dat ain' 'zackly what I mean. Hit's like dis—I just am boun' foh to hyah all de folks shout glory when ma Honey-bird comes home!"

"What if she ain't in front, Uncle Jake?" said Blister, helping the old man into the motor.

"Don't you trifle with me, boy!" replied Uncle Jake severely.

Derby day dawned as fair as turquoise sky and radiant sun could make it. I had slept badly. Until late the night before I had absorbed a haze of cigar smoke and the talk in the hotel lobby. Despite Blister's confidence I had become panicky as I listened. There had been so much assurance about several grave, soft-spoken horsemen who had felt that at the weight the favorite could not win.

"Nevah foh a moment, suh," one elderly well-preserved Kentuckian had said, "will I deny the Dillon mare the right to be the public's choice. But she has nevah met such a field of hosses as this, suh—and she lacks the bone to carry top weight against them."

There had been many nods of approval at this statement, and I had gone to the Dillon party for consolation. But when I reached their apartments I had found the judge more silent than ever, and Mrs. Dillon as nervous as myself. Only Miss Goodloe appeared as usual. Her drawl was soothingly indolent. She seemed entirely oblivious of any tenseness in the atmosphere, and I caught myself wondering what was behind those lazy-lidded blue eyes.

Back in the lobby once more I had found it worse than ever—so many were against the favorite. I had about decided that our hopes were doomed, when a call boy summoned me to the desk with the statement, "Gentleman to see you, sir."

There I had found Blister and I fairly hugged him as he explained that he had dropped in on the way to his "joint," as he called his hotel.

"Listenin' to the knockers?" he asked, reading me at once. "Furget it—them ole mint juleps is dead 'n' buried. You'll go dippy if you fall fur that stuff."

"But the weight!" I gasped.

"Say, they've got you goin' right, ain't they?" Blister exclaimed. "Now listen! She can carry the grand-stand 'n' come home on the bit! Get that fixed in your nut, 'n' then hit the hay."

"Thanks, I believe I shall," I said, and I had followed his advice, though it was long until sleep came to me.

But now as the blue-gray housetops of Louisville sparkled with tiny points of light, and the window-panes swam with pink-gold flame, I looked out over the still sleeping city and laughed aloud at my fears of the night before.

"A perfect day," I thought. "The favorite will surely win, and Blister and Uncle Jake and Mrs. Dillon will be made perfectly happy. A beautiful day, and a fitting one in which to fix the name of Tres Jolie among the equine stars!"

"We read some of your poetry last night after you had gone," said Mrs. Dillon, as we waited for the motor to take us to Churchill Downs. "I liked it, and I don't care for verse as a rule, except Omar. I dote on The Rubaiyat; don't you?"

"Yes, indeed," I replied. "I can't quite swallow his philosophy, but he puts it all so charmingly. Some of his pictures are most alluring."

"Do learned persons ever long for the wilderness, and the bough, and—the other things?" Miss Goodloe asked innocently.

"Quite frequently," I assured her.

She affected a sigh of relief.

"That's such a help," she said. "It makes them seem more like the rest of us."

A huge motor-car wheeled from the line at the curb and glided past us. A man in the tonneau lifted his hat high above his head as he saw Judge Dillon.

"Oh, you Tres Jolie!" he called with a smile. "The best luck in the world to you, Judge!" It was an excessively rich New Yorker, who owned one of the horses about to run in the derby.

"Oh, you Rob Roy!" called back Judge Dillon, also raising his hat. "The same to you, Henry!" And suddenly there was a tug at my nerves, for I realized that this was the salut de combat.

But Uncle Jake, his faith in his "Honey-bird" unshaken as the time drew near, rode in placid contentment on the front seat as we sped to the track. We passed, or were passed by, many motor-cars from which came joyous good wishes as the Dillons were recognized. Each packed and groaning street-car held some one who knew our party, and "Oh, you Tres Jolie!" they howled as we swept by. The old negro's ears drank all this in. It was as wine to his spirit. He hummed a soft minor accompaniment to the purring motor, and leaning forward I caught these words:

"Curry a mule an' curry a hoss, Keep down trubbul wid de stable boss!"

"Luck to her, Judge!" called the man at the gates, as he waved us through. "Ah've bet my clothes on her!"

"You'll need a barrel to get home in!" yelled a voice from a buggy. "The Rob Roy hoss'll beat her and make her like it!"

"You-all are from the East, Ah reckon," we heard the gateman reply. "Ah've just got twenty left that says we raise 'em gamer in Kentucky than up your way!"

At the stables we found Blister.

"How is she?" asked Judge Dillon.

"She's ready," was the answer. "It's all over, but hangin' the posies on her."

"Lemme feel dis mayah," said Uncle Jake, and Mrs. Dillon guided him into the stall.

"I'd like to give her one little nip before she goes to the post, Judge," I heard Blister say in a low voice.

"Not a drop," came the quick reply. "If she can't win on her own courage, she'll have to lose."

"Judge Dillon won't stand fur hop—he won't even let you slip a slug of booze into a hoss," Blister had once told me. I had not altogether understood this at the time, but now I looked at the big quiet man with his splendid sportsmanship, and loved him for it.

A roar came from the grand-stand across the center-field.

"They're off in the first race," said Blister. "Put the saddle on her, boys;" and when this was accomplished: "Bring her out—it's time to warm up."

I had witnessed Tres Jolie come forth once before and I drew well back, but it was Mrs. Dillon who led the thoroughbred from the stall. She was breathing wonderful words. Her voice was like the cooing of a dove. Tres Jolie appeared to listen.

"She don't handle like that fur us, does she, Chick?" said Blister.

"Nope," said the boy addressed. "I guess she's hypnotized."

"How do you do it?" I inquired of Mrs. Dillon as she led the mare to the track, the rest of us following.

"She's my precious lamb, and I'm her own mammy," was the lucid explanation.

"Now you know," said Blister to me. "Pete!" he called to a boy, approaching, "I want this mare galloped a slow mile. Breeze her the last eighth. Don't take hold of her any harder'n you have to. Try 'n' talk her back."

"I got you," said the boy, as Blister threw him up. Mrs. Dillon let go of the bridle. Tres Jolie stood straight on her hind legs, made three tremendous bounds, and was gone. We could see the boy fighting to get her under control, as she sped like a bullet down the track.

"I guess Pete ain't usin' the right langwige," said the boy called Chick, with a wide grin.

"Maybe she ain't listenin' good," added another boy.

"Cut out the joshin' 'n' get her blankets ready," said Blister with a frown.

"I think we'd better start," suggested Judge Dillon.

"Aren't you terribly excited?" I asked Miss Goodloe curiously, as she walked cool and composed by my side. My own heart was pounding.

"Of course," she drawled.

"This girl is made of stone," I thought.

The band was playing Dixie as we climbed the steps of the grand-stand, and the thousands cheered until it was repeated. Hands were thrust at the Dillons from every side, and until we found our box, continued shouts of, "Oh, you Tres Jolie!" rose above the crash of the band.

I had witnessed many races in the past and been a part of many racing crowds but never one like this. These people were Kentuckians. The thoroughbred was part of their lives and their traditions. Through him many made their bread. Over the fairest of all their fair acres he ran, and save for their wives and children they loved him best of all.

Once each year for many years they had come from all parts of the smiling bluegrass country to watch this struggle between the satin-coated lords of speed that determined which was king. This journey was like a pilgrimage, and worship was in their shining eyes, as tier on tier I scanned their eager faces.

And now three things happened. A bugle called, and called again. The crowd grew deathly still. And Mrs. Dillon, in a voice that reminded me of a frightened child, asked:

"Where is Blister?"

"He'll be here," said Judge Dillon, patting her hand. And even as a megaphone bellowed: "We are now ready for the thirty-ninth renewal of the Kentucky Derby!" Blister squeezed through the crowd to the door of the box.

He was a rock upon which we immediately leaned.

"Everything all right?" I asked.

"Fine as silk," he said cheerfully, dropping into a seat. "You'll see a race hoss run to-day! Here they come! She's in front!" And held to a proud sedateness by their tiny riders, the contenders in the derby filed through the paddock-gate.

At the head of these leashed falcons was a haughty, burnished, slender-legged beauty—the proudest of them all. Her neck was curving to the bit and she seemed to acknowledge with a gracious bow the roar of acclamation that greeted her. She bore the number 1 upon her satin side, and dropping my eyes to my program I read:

1. Tres Jolie—b. m. by Hamilton—dam Alberta. John C. Dillon, Lexington, Kentucky. (Manders—blue and gold.)

"What sort of jockey is Manders?" I asked Blister.

"Good heady boy," was the reply.

"Virginia, oh, Virginia, isn't she a lamb?" gasped Mrs. Dillon.

"She's a stuck-up miss," said Miss Goodloe in an even tone, and I almost hated her.

Number 2 I failed to see as they paraded past.

Number 3 was a gorgeous black, with eyes of fire, powerful in neck and shoulders, and with a long driving hip. He was handsome as the devil and awe-inspiring. Applause from the stands likewise greeted him, though it was feeble to the howl that had met the favorite.

"There's the one we've got to beat," Blister stated.

"Good horse," said Judge Dillon quietly.

3. Rob Roy—bl. s. by Tempus Fugit—dam Marigold. Henry L. Whitley, New York City. (Dawson—green and white.)

I read. I followed him with my eyes and wished him somewhere else. He looked so overpowering—he and the millions behind him. . . .

At last, a quarter of a mile away, they halted in a gorgeous shifting group. And the taut elastic webbing of the barrier that was to hold them from their flight a little longer, was stretched before them.

They surged against it like a parti-colored wave, and then receding, surged again, but always the narrow webbing held them back. I found the blue and gold. It was almost without motion—it did not shift and whirl with the rest.

"Ain't she the grand actor?" said Blister with delight. "The best mannered thing at the barrier ever I saw."

Then for a moment I lost the colors that had held my gaze. They were blotted out and crowded back by other colors. In that instant the wave conquered. It grew larger and larger. It was coming like the wind. But where was the blue and gold?

I was answered by a heaven-cleaving shout that changed in the same breath to a despairing groan. It was as though a giant had been stricken deep while roaring forth his battle-cry. The thousands had seen what I had missed—their hopes in an instant were gone. In the stillness that followed, a harsh whisper reached me.

"She's left! She's left!" Then an uncanny laugh. The rock had broken.

The wave was greeted by silence. A red bay thundered in the lead. Then came a demon, hard held, with open mouth, and number 3 shone from his raven side. Followed a flying squadron all packed together, their hoofs rolling like drums. And then came aching lengths, and my eyes filled with tears and something gripped my heart and squeezed it as Tres Jolie, skimming like an eager swallow, fled past undaunted by that hopeless gap.

"Whar my baby at?" asked Uncle Jake. He had heard the groan and the silence, and fear was in his voice.

"Oh—Uncle Jake—" began Mrs. Dillon. "They—" her voice broke.

"Dey ain' left her at de post? Doan' tell me dat, Miss Sally!"

Mrs. Dillon nodded as though to eyes that saw. Uncle Jake seemed to feel it.

"How fah back? How fah back?" he demanded.

"She ain't got a chance, Uncle Jake!" said Blister, and dropped his head on his arm lying along the railing.

"How fah back?" insisted the old negro.

Blister raised his head and gazed.

"Twenty len'ths," he said, and dropped it again.

"Doan' you fret, Miss Sally," Uncle Jake encouraged. "She'll beat 'em yet!"

"Not this time, old man," said Judge Dillon very gently. He was tearing his program carefully into little pieces, with big shaking hands. . . .

The horses were around the first turn, and the battle up the back stretch had begun. The red bay was still leading.

"Mandarin in front!" said some one behind us. "Rob Roy second and running easy—the rest nowhere!"

"Jes' you wait!" called Uncle Jake.

"You ole fool nigger!" came Blister's muffled voice.

Even at that distance I could have told which one was last. The same effortless floating stride I had noticed long ago was hers as Tres Jolie, foot by foot, ate up the gap. At the far turn she caught the stragglers and one by one she cut them down.

"Oh, gallant spirit!" I thought. "If they had given you but half a chance!"

I lost her among a melee of horses, on the turn, as the leader swung into the stretch. It was the same red bay, but now the boy on the black horse moved his hands forward a little and his mount came easily to the leader's side. There was a short struggle between them and the bay fell back.

"Mandarin's done!" cried the voice behind us. "Rob Roy on the bit!"

"I might have known it!" I thought bitterly. "He looked it all along."

Then a gentle buzzing sprang up like a breeze. It was a whisper that grew to a muttering, and then became a rumble and at last one delirious roar. The giant had recovered, and his mighty cry brought me to my feet, my heart in my throat—for "Tres Jolie" he roared . . . and coming! . . . coming!! . . . coming!!! . . . I saw the blue and gold!

A maniac rose among us and flung his fists above his head. He called upon his gods—and then that magic name—"Tres Jolie," he shrieked: "Oh, Baby Doll!" It was Blister—and I marveled.



I had seen him stand and lose his all without a sign of feeling. But now he raved and cursed and prayed and plead with his "Girlie!"—his "Baby Doll!", and with the last atom of her strength his sweetheart answered the call.

She reached, heaven alone knows how, the flank of the flying black, and inch by inch she crept along that flank until they struggled head to head.

"Oh, you black dog!" howled Blister, wild triumph in his voice. "You've got to beat a race hoss now!"

As though he heard, the black horse flattened to his work. Almost to the end he held her there, eye meeting eye. The task was just beyond him. Even as they shot under the wire, he faltered. But it was very close, and the shrieking hysterical grand-stand grew still and waited.

I glanced at Blister. He was leaning forward, almost crouching, his face ashen, his eyes on the number board.

Then slowly the numbers swung into view, and "1, 3, 7," I read.

There was a roar like the falling of ten thousand forest trees. These words flashed through my mind. "We'll know about her when she goes the route, carryin' weight against class." . . . . Yes, we knew about her—now!

I saw Mrs. Dillon's lips move at Uncle Jake's ear. He raised his sightless eyes to the sky, his head nodding. It was as though he visioned paradise and found it good indeed.

I saw Blister's face turn from gray to red, from red to purple. The tenseness went out of his body, and suddenly he was gone, fighting his way through the crowd toward the steps.

I saw Judge Dillon's big arm gather in his trembling wife, and he held her close while the heavens rocked.

These things I saw through a blur, and then I felt Miss Goodloe sway at my side. She clutched at the railing, missed it and sank slowly into her seat. I but glimpsed a white face in which the eyes had changed from blue to violet, when it was covered by two slender gloved hands.

"Are you ill?" I called, as I bent above her.

She shook her head.

"It was too much," I barely heard.

I stood bewildered, and then my stupid mind cast out a soulless image that it held and fixed the true one there.

"I rarely make this kind of a fool of myself," she said at last.

"That I can quite believe," I replied, smiling down at her. She returned the smile with one that held a fine good comradeship, and we seemed to have known each other long. . . .

A crowd had packed themselves before the stall. As we reached it Blister appeared in the doorway.

"Get back! Get back!" he ordered, and pointing to the panting mare: "Don't you think she's earned a right to breath?"

The crowd fell away, except one rather shabby little old man.

"No one living," said he, "appreciates what she has done moh than myself, suh, but I desiah to lay ma hand on a real race mayah once moh befoh I die!"

Blister's face softened.

"Come on in, Mr. Sanford," he invited. "Why you win the derby once, didn't you?"

"Thank you, suh. Yes, suh, many yeahs ago," said the little old man, and removing his battered hat he entered the stall, his white head bare.

Mrs. Dillon's face as she, too, entered the stall was tear-wet and alight with a great tenderness.

A boy dodged his way to where we stood. His face and the front of his blue and gold jacket were encrusted with dirt.

"You shoe-maker!" was Blister's scornful greeting.

"Honest to Gawd it wasn't my fault, Judge," the boy piped, sniffling. "Honest to Gawd it wasn't! That sour-headed bay stud of Henderson's swung his ugly butt under the mare's nose, 'n' just as I'm takin' back so the dog won't kick a leg off her, that mutt of a starter lets 'em go!"

"All right, sonny," said the judge. "You rode a nice race when you did get away."

"Much obliged, sir. I just wanted to tell you," said the boy, and he disappeared in the crowd as Judge Dillon joined those in the stall.

I stayed outside watching the group about Tres Jolie, and never had my heart gone out to people more. Deeply I wished to keep them in my life. . . I wondered if we would ever meet again. But pshaw!—I was nothing to them. Well, I would go back to Cincinnati when they left in the morning. . . .

"Can't we have you for a week at Thistle Ridge?" Mrs. Dillon stood looking up at me.

"Why, that's very kind—" I stammered.

"The north pasture is a wilderness this year, the loaf of bread, the jug of wine and the bough are waiting. You can, of course, furnish your own verses."

"The picture is almost perfect," I said, and glanced at Miss Goodloe.

"Virginia, dear—" prompted Mrs. Dillon.

"As a thou—I always strive to please," drawled that blue-eyed young person. Oh, that I had been warned by her words!

Our purring flight to Louisville, when the day was done, became a triumph that mocked the dead Caesars. Of this the old negro on the front seat missed little. He was singing, softly singing. And leaning forward I listened.

"Curry a mule an' curry a hoss, Keep down trubbul wid de stable boss!"

sang Uncle Jake.



OLE MAN SANFORD

"Do you happen to notice a old duck that comes to the stalls at Loueyville just after the derby?" asked Blister.

"Was his name Sanford, and did he wish to pat the mare?" I asked in turn.

"That's him," said Blister. "Ole man Sanford. It ain't likely you ever heard of him, but everybody on the track knows him, if they ever hit the Loueyville meetin'. They never charge him nothin' to get into the gates. He ain't a owner no more, but way back there before I'm alive he wins the Kentucky Derby with Sweet Alice, 'n' from what I hears she was a grand mare. Ole man Sanford breeds Sweet Alice hisself. In them days he's got a big place not far from Loueyville. They tell me his folks get the land original from the govament, when it's nothin' but timber. I hears once, but it don't hardly sound reasonable, that they hands over a half a million acres to the first ole man Sanford, who was a grandaddy of this ole man Sanford. If that's so, Uncle Sam was more of a sport in them days than since.

"I don't know how they pry it all loose from him, but one mawnin' ole man Sanford wakes up clean as a whistle. They've copped the whole works—he ain't got nothin'. So he goes to keepin' books fur a whisky house in Loueyville, 'n' he holds the job down steady fur twenty years. The only time he quits pen-pushin' is when they race at Churchill Downs. From the first minute the meetin' opens till get-away day comes he's bright eyes at the rat hole. He don't add up no figgers fur nobody then. He just putters around the track. He's doped out as sort-a harmless by the bunch.

"After the Tres Jolie mare wins the derby fur me, ole man Sanford makes my stalls his hang-out. I ain't kickin', all he wants to do is to look at the mare 'n' chew the rag about her. That satisfies him completely.

"'Of all the hosses, suh, who have been a glory to our state,' he says, 'but one otheh had as game a heart as this superb creature. I refer to Sweet Alice, suh—a race mayah of such quality that the world marveled. Not in a boastful manner, suh, but with propah humility, let me say that I had the honor to breed and raise Sweet Alice, and that she bore my colors when she won the tenth renewal of our great classic.'

"He tells this to everybody that comes past the stalls, 'n' it ain't long till he begins to bring people around to look the mare over. From that he gets to watchin' how the swipes take care of her. Pretty soon he begins to call 'em if things ain't done to suit him.

"'Boy,' he'll say, 'that bandage is tighter than I like to see it. Always allow the tendon a little play—do not impaieh the suhculation.'

"The boys eat this stuff up—it tickles 'em. They treat him respectful 'n' do what he tells 'em.

"'Everything O. K. to-day, sir?' they'll say.

"Ole man Sanford don't tumble they're kiddin' him.

"'Ah have nothing to complain of,' he says.

"It ain't long till he's overseein' my whole string of hosses, just like he owns 'em. Man, he sure does enjoy hisself! He won't trade places with August Belmont.

"I'm gettin' Trampfast ready fur a nice little killin'. He's finished away back in two starts, but he runs both races without a pill. This hoss is a dope. He's been on it fur two seasons. He won't beat nothin' without his hop. But when he gets just the right mixture under his hide he figgers he can beat any kind of a hoss, 'n' he's about right at that. He furgets all about his weak heart with the nutty stuff in him. He thinks he's a ragin' lion. He can't wait to go out there 'n' eat up them kittens that's goin' to start against him.

"One mawnin' my boy Pete takes the Trampfast hoss out fur a trial.

"'If he'll go six furlongs in about fourteen,' I says to Pete, 'he's right. If he tries to loaf on you, shake him up; but if he's doin' his work nice, let him suit hisself 'n' keep the bat off him. I want to see what he'll do on his own.'

"'I think he'll perform to-day,' says Pete. 'He's felt real good to me fur the last week.'

"Ole man Sanford's standin' there listenin'. When the work-out starts he ketches the time with a big gold stop-clock that he fishes out of his shiny ole vest. The clock's old, too—it winds with a key—but at that she's a peach!

"'That's a fine clock,' I says to him. He don't take his eyes off the hoss comin' round the bend.

"'He's running with freedom and well within himself,' he says. 'That quatah was in twenty-foh flat! Yes, suh, this watch was presented to me by membahs of the Breedah's Association to commemorate the victory of Sweet Alice in the tenth renewal of our classic. You have heard me speak of Sweet Alice?'

"'Yes, you told me about her, Mr. Sanford,' I says. 'That's sure some clock.'

"'If he does not faltah in the stretch, suh,' says ole man Sanford, 'I will presently show you the one minute and fohteen seconds you desiah upon its face.'

"The ole man's a good judge of pace,—Trampfast comes home bang in the fourteen notch.

"When Pete gets down at the stalls, ole man Sanford walks up to him.

"'Hyah is a dollah foh you, boy,' he says, 'n' hands Pete a buck. 'That was a well-rated trial.'

"Pete looks at the silver buck 'n' then at ole man Sanford 'n' then at me.

"'What the hell—' he says.

"'You rough neck!' I says to Pete. Don't you know how to act when a gentleman slips you somethin'?'

"'But look a-here,' says Pete. 'He ain't got—' I gives Pete a poke in the slats. 'Much obliged, sir,' he says, 'n' puts the bone in his pocket.

"'You are entirely welcome, mah boy,' says ole man Sanford, wavin' his hand.

"'Say,' Pete says to me, 'I think this hoss'll cop without shot in the arm. He's awful good!'

"'Not fur mine,' I says. 'He can run fur Sweeney when he ain't got no hop in him. Just let some sassy hoss look him in the eye fur two jumps 'n' he'll holler, "Please, mister, don't!" Yea, bo',' I says, 'I know this pup too well. When he's carryin' my kale he'll be shoutin' hallelooyah with a big joy pill under his belt.'

"I furgets all about ole man Sanford bein' there. You don't talk about hoppin' one with strangers listening but he's around so much I never thinks. All of a sudden he's standin' in front of me lookin' like there's somethin' hurtin' him.

"'What's the matter, Mr. Sanford?' I says.

"'I gathah from yoh convahsation,' says he, 'that it is yoh practise to supplement the fine courage that God has given the thoroughbred with vile stimulants. Am I correct in this supposition, suh?'

"'Why, yes—' I says, kind-a took back. 'When they need it I sure gives it to 'em.'

"Ole man Sanford draws hisself up 'n' looks at me like I'm a toad.

"'Suh,' he says, 'the man who does that degrades himself and the helpless creature that Providence has placed in his keeping! Not only that, suh, but he insults the name of the thoroughbred and all it stands for, still tendahly cherished by some of us. Ah have heard of this abhorant practise that has come as a part of this mercenary age, and, suh, Ah abominate both it and the man who would be guilty of such an act!'

"'Why, look-a here, Mr. Sanford,' I says. 'They're all doin' it. If you're goin' to train hosses you've got to get in the band wagon. If you can't give the owner a run fur his money he'll find somebody to train 'em who can!'

"'Do you mean to tell me, suh, the wonderful courage displayed by that mayah when the time came, was false?' says ole man Sanford, pointin' at Tres Jolie's stall. 'Ah saw strong men, the backbone of this state, suh,' he says, 'watch that mayah come home with tears in their eyes. Were their natures moved to the depths by an insulting counterfeit of greatness?'

"'Why, sure not!' I says. 'But all hosses ain't like this mare.'

"'They are not, suh!' says ole man Sanford. 'Noh were they intended to be! But few of us are ordained foh the heights. However,' he says, puttin' his hand on my shoulder, 'Ah should not censure you too strongly, young man. In fohcing yoh hawsses to simulate qualities they do not possess, you are only a part of yoh times. This is the day of imitation—I find it between the covahs of yoh books—I hear it in the music yoh applaud—I see it riding by in motah-cars. Imitation—all imitation!'

"I ain't hep to this line of chatter—it's by me. But I dopes it out he's sore at automobiles,

"'What's wrong with 'em?' I says to him.

"'Ah don't feel qualified to answer yoh question, suh,' he says. 'Ah believe the blind pursuit and worship of riches is almost entirely responsible. It has bred a shallowness and superficiality in and towahds the finah things of life. But the historian will answer yoh question at a later day. He can bring a calmness to the task which is impossible to one surrounded and bewildered by it all.'

"I ain't any wiser'n I was, but I don't say nothin'. The old man acts like he's studyin' about somethin'.

"'Who owns the hawss that just trialed three-quahtahs in fohteen?' he says, after while.

"'Jim Sigsbee up at Cynthiana,' I says.

"'Is Mr. Sigsbee awaheh of the—method you pursue with regahd to falsely stimulating his hawss?' says ole man Sanford.

"'Well, I guess yes!' I says. 'Jim won't bet a dollar on him unless he's got the hop in him.'

"'Ah shall write to him,' says ole man Sanford, 'n' beats it down the track toward the gates.

"I don't see him fur over a week. I figger he's sore at me fur dopin' hosses. It's a funny thing but, I'm a son-of-a-gun if I don't miss the ole duck. From the way they talk I see the boys kind-a miss him, too.

"'I wonder where ole Pierpont's at?' I hears Chick say to Skinny. 'Gone East to see one of his hosses prepped fur the Brooklyn, I guess.'

"'Naw,' says Skinny; 'you got that wrong. He's goin' to send a stable to Urope, 'n' Todd Sloan's tryin' to get a contrac' from him as exercise-boy. Ole Pierpont's watchin' Todd work out a few so he kin size up his style.'

"I've wrote Jim Sigsbee Trampfast's ready, but I don't enter the hoss 'cause I know Jim wants to come over 'n' bet a piece of money on him. I don't hear from Jim, 'n' I wonder why.

"One day I'm settin' in front of the stalls 'n' here comes ole man Sanford down the line.

"'Why, hello, Mr. Sanford!' I says. 'We sort-a figgered you'd quit us. Things ain't gone right since you left. The boys need you to keep 'em on their toes.'

"'Ah have not deserted you intentionally, suh,' he says. 'Since Ah saw you last an old friend of mine has passed to his rewahd. The Hono'able James Tullfohd Fawcett is no moh, suh—a gallant gentleman has left us.'

"'That's too bad,' I says. 'Did he leave a family?'

"'He did not, suh,' says ole man Sanford. 'Ah fell heir to his entiah estate, only excepting the silvah mug presented to his beloved mothah at his birth by Andrew Jackson himself, suh. This he bequeathed to the public, and it will soon be displayed at the rooms of the Historical Society named in his last will and testament.'

"'Did you get much out of it?" I says.

"'He had already endowed me with a friendship beyond price, suh,' he says. 'His estate was not a large one as such things go—some twelve hundred dollahs, I believe.'

"'That's better'n breakin' a leg,' I says.

"'You will, perhaps, be interested to learn,' he says, 'that Ah have pu'chased the hawss Trampfast with a po'tion of the money. Hyah is a lettah foh you from Mr. Sigsbee relative to the mattah.' He hands me a letter, but I can't hardly read it—his buyin' this hop-head gets my goat.

"'What you goin' to do with him?' I says. 'Race him?'

"'That is ma intention, suh,' he says. 'Ah expect to keep him in yoh hands. But, of co'se, suh, the hawss will race on his merits and without any sawt of stimulant.'

"I ain't stuck on the proposition. The Trampfast hoss can't beat a cook stove without the hop. I hate to see the ole man burn up his dough on a dead one.

"'Now, Mr. Sanford,' I says, 'times has changed since you raced. If you'll let me handle this hoss to suit myself I think I can make a piece of money fur you. The game ain't like it was once, 'n' if you try to pull the stuff that got by thirty years ago, they'll trim you right down to the suspenders. They ain't nothin' crooked about slippin' the hop into a hoss that needs it.'

"'As neahly as I can follow yoh fohm of speech,' says ole man Sanford, 'you intend to convey the impression that the practise of stimulating a hawss has become entirely propah. Am I correct, suh?'

"'That's it,' I says. ''N' you can gamble I'm right.'

"'Is the practise allowed under present day racing rules?' says ole man Sanford, 'n' I think I've got him goin'.

"'Why, sure not,' I says. 'But how long would a guy last if he never broke a racin' rule?'

"'Out of yoh own mouth is yoh augument condemned, suh,' says ole man Sanford. 'Even in this day and generation the rules fohbid it—and let me say, suh, that should a trainah, a jockey, or any one connected with a stable of mine, be guilty of wilfully violating a racing rule, Ah would discharge him at once, suh!'

"'You goin' to race on the level all the time?' I says.

"'If by that expression you mean hono'ably and as a gentleman—yes, suh!'

"'Good night, nurse!' I says. 'You'll go broke quick at that game!'

"'Allow me to remind you that that is ma own affaih, suh,' says ole man Sanford, 'n' the argument's over. His ideas date back so far they're mildewed, but I see I can't change 'em. He don't belong around a race track no more'n your grandmother!

"'All right, Mr. Sanford!' I says. 'You're the doctor! We'll handle him just like you say.'

"Peewee Simpson has come over to chew the rag with me, 'n' he hears most of this talk.

"'Wait till I call the boys,' he says, when ole man Sanford goes in to look at the hoss.

"'What fur?' I says.

"'Family prayers,' says Peewee.

"I throws a scraper at him, 'n' he goes on down the line singin', Onward, Christian Soldiers.

"Ole man Sanford orders a set of silks. He's got to send away fur the kind he wants 'n' he won't let me start his hoss till they come. Nobody but big stables pays attention to colors, so I tries to talk him out of the notion,—nothin' doin'!

"'Ma colors were known and respected in days gone by, suh,' he says. 'Ah owe it to the public who reposed confidence in the puhple and white, to fly ma old flag when Ah once moh take the field. Yes, suh.'

"'Purple 'n' white!' I says. 'Them's the colors of the McVay stable!'

"'Ah was breeding stake hawsses, suh,' says ole man Sanford, 'when his mothah's milk was not yet dry upon the lips of young McVay.'

"When the silks come, I picks out a real soft spot for Trampfast. It's a six furlong ramble fur has-beens 'n' there's sure a bunch of kioodles in it! Most of 'em ought to be on crutches. My hoss has showed me the distance in fourteen, 'n' that's about where this gang'll stagger home. With the hop in him the Trampfast hoss'll give me two seconds better. He ought to be a swell bet. But the hop puts all the heart in him there is—he ain't got one of his own. If he runs empty he'll lay down sure. I can't hop him, so I won't bet on him with counterfeit money.

"The mawnin' of the race ole man Sanford's at the stalls bright 'n' early. He's chipper as a canary. He watches Chick hand-rub the hoss fur a while 'n' then he pulls out a roll 'n' eases Chick two bucks. I pipes off the roll. The ole man sees me lookin' at it.

"'Ah intend to wageh moderately today,' he says. 'And Ah have brought a small sum with me foh the puhpose.'

"'What you goin' to bet on?' I says.

"'Ma own hawss, of co'se, suh,' he says. 'It is ma custom to back only ma own hawsses or those of ma friends.'

"I don't say nothin'. I'm wise by this time, he plays the game to suit hisself, but it sure makes me sick. I hate as bad to see the ole man lose his dough as if it's mine.

"I goes over 'n' sets down on the track fence.

"'When you train a hoss fur a guy you do like he says, don't you?' I says to myself. 'You don't own this hoss, 'n' the owner don't want him hopped. They ain't but one answer—don't hop him.'

"'But look-a here,' I says back to myself. 'If you sees a child in wrong, you tells him to beat it, don't you? It ain't your child, is it? Well, this ole man ain't nothin' but a child. If he was, he'd let you hop the hoss, 'n' make a killin' fur him.' I argues with myself this way, but they can't neither one of us figger it out to suit the other.

"'I wish the damned ole fool had somebody else a-trainin' his dog!' I thinks after I've set there a hour 'n' ain't no further along 'n I was when I starts.

"When it's gettin' towards post time, ole man Sanford hikes fur the stand.

"'Skinny,' I says, 'amble over to the bettin' shed 'n' watch what the ole man does. As soon as he's got his kale down, beat it back here on the jump, 'n' tell me how much he gets on 'n' what the odds are.'

"In about ten minutes here comes Skinny at a forty shot.

"'He bets a hundred straight at fifteen-to-one! What do you know about that?' he hollers.

"'That settles it!' I says. 'Chick, get them two bottles that's hid under the rub-rags in the trunk! Now, ole Holler-enough,' I says to the Tramp, 'you may be a imitation hoss, but we're goin' to make you look so much like the real thing your own mother won't know you! . . .'

"When Trampfast starts fur the paddock, his eyes has begun to roll 'n' he's walkin' proud.

"'He thinks he's the Zar of Rushy,' says Chick. 'He'll be seein' pink elephants in a minute.'

"I don't find ole man Sanford till they're at the post. He's standin' by the fence at the wire.

"The start's bein' held up by the Tramp. He's sure puttin' on a show—the hop's got him as wild as a eagle. It's too far away fur the ole man to see good, so I don't put him hep it's his hoss that's cuttin' the didoes.

"Just then Chick comes up.

"'I hear you get a nice bet down on your hoss, Mr. Sanford,' he says. 'I sure hope he cops.'

"'Thank you, ma boy,' says ole man Sanford. 'I only placed a small wageh, but at vehy liberal odds. Ah shall profit materially should he win his race.'

"'If he gets away good he'll roll,' says Chick. 'There's no class to that bunch, 'n' he's a bear with a shot in him. But he's a bad actor when he's hopped—look at the fancy stuff he's pullin' now!'

"'You are mistaken, ma boy,' says ole man Sanford. 'This hawss has had no stimulant to-day.'

"Like a nut I've furgot to tell the boys the ole man ain't on. I tries to give Chick the high sign, but he's watchin' the hosses, 'n' before I can get to him he belches up the glad news.

"'If he ain't hopped one never was!' he says. 'We put a fierce shot in him. Look at him act if you don—'

"I kick his shin off right there, but it's too late, ole man Sanford gets pale as a rag.

"'How dare you—' he says, 'n' stops. 'But Ah shall prevent it!' he says, 'n' starts fur the judge's stand. He ain't got a chance—just then they get away, 'n' he turns back to me when he hears the crowd holler, 'They're off!'

"'Young man,' he says, pointin' at me, 'n' he's shakin' like he's cold. 'What have Ah evah done to you to merit such treatment at yoh hands?'

"I see there's no use to lie to him, so I gives it to him straight.

"'Mr. Sanford,' I says, 'the hoss can't win without it, 'n' I don't want to see you lose your money.'

"Ole man Sanford sort-a wilts. He seems to get smaller. I've never noticed how old he is till now. He stands a-lookin' at me like he never sees me before.

"The crowd begins to yell as the hosses hit the stretch. The Tramp is out in front, 'n' he stays there all the way.

"The ole man never even looks towards the track.

"'He wins easy,' says Chick as they go under the wire, 'n' all you can hear is 'Trampfast! Trampfast!' but ole man Sanford still keeps a-starin' at me.