Blister Jones

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.

TRÈS 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 Très 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 Très 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 Très 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.