WANTED--A RAINBOW
At our last meeting Blister had told me of a "ringing" in years gone by that had ended disastrously for him. And now as we idled in the big empty grand-stand a full hour before it would be electrified by the leaping phrase, "They're off!" I desired further reminiscences.
"Ringing a horse must be a risky business?" I ventured.
"Humph!" grunted Blister, evidently declining to comment on the obvious. Then he glanced at me with a dry whimsical smile. "I see that little ole pad stickin' out of your pocket," he said. "Ain't she full of race-hoss talk yet?"
"Always room for one more," I replied, frankly producing the note-book.
"Well, I guess I'm the goat," he said resignedly. "I had figured to sick you on to Peewee Simpson to-day, but he ain't around, so I'll spill some chatter about ringin' a hoss among the society bunch one time, 'n' then I'll buy a bucket of suds."
"I'll buy the beer," I stated with emphasis.
"All right—just so we get it—I'll be dryer'n a covered bridge," said Blister.
"This ringin' I mentions," he went on, "happens while I'm ruled off.
"At the get-away I've got a job with a Chicago buyer, who used to live in New York. This guy has a big ratty barn. He deals mostly in broken-down skates that he sells to pedlers 'n' cabmen. Once in a while he takes a flier in high-grade stuff, 'n' one day he buys a team of French coach hosses from a breedin' farm owned by a millionaire.
"Believe me they was a grand pair—seal brown, sixteen hands 'n' haired like babies. They fans their noses with their knees, when get's the word, 'n' after I sits behind 'em 'n' watches their hock-action fur a while I feels like apologizin' to 'em fur makin' 'em haul a bum like me.
"These dolls go East,' says the guy I works fur. 'They don't pull no pig-sticker in this burg. They'll be at the Garden so much they'll head fur Madison Square whenever they're taken out.'
"He ships the pair East 'n' sends me with 'em as caretaker. I deliver 'em to a swell sales company up-town in New York.
"This concern has some joint—take it from me—every floor is just bulgin' with hosses that's so classy they sends 'em to a manicure parlor 'stead of a blacksmith's shop.
"There's a big show-ring, with a balcony all 'round it, on the top floor. They take my pair up there 'n' hook 'em to a hot wagon painted yellow, 'n' the company's main squeeze, named Brown, comes up to see 'em act. I'm facin' the door just as a guy starts to lead a hoss into the show-ring. The pair swings by, this hoss shies back sudden 'n' I see him make a queer move with his off rear leg. Brown don't see it—he's got his back to the door.
"The guy leads the hoss up to us.
"'Here's that hunter I phoned you about, Mr. Brown,' he says. The hoss is a toppy trick—bright bay, short backed, good coupled 'n' 'll weigh eleven hundred strong. But he's got a knot on his near-fore that shows plain.
"'I thought you told me he was sound?' says Brown, lookin' at the knot.
"'What's the matter with you, Mr. Brown?' says the guy. 'That little thing don't bother him. Any eight-year-old hunter that knows the game is bound to be blemished in front.'
"'Can you tell an unsound one when you look at him?' Brown asks me.
"'I can smell a dink a mile off,' I says.
"'Here's an outside party,' says Brown; 'let's hear what he has to say. Feel that bump, young man!' he says to me.
"I runs my hand over the knot.
"'That don't hurt him,' I says. 'It's on the shin 'n' part of it's thick skin.'
"'There!' says the guy. 'Your own man's against you.'
"'He's not my man,' says Brown, lookin' at me disgusted.
"'This ain't my funeral,' I says to Brown. ''N' I ain't had a call to butt in. If you tells me to butt—I butts.'
"'Go to it,' says Brown.
"'Do you throw a crutch in with this one?' I says to the guy.
"'What does he need a crutch for?' he says, givin' me a sour look.
"I takes the hoss by the head, backs him real sudden, 'n' he lifts the off-rear high 'n' stiff.
"'He's a stringer,' I says.
"Brown gives the guy the laugh.
"'You might get thirty dollars from a Jew pedler for him,' he says. 'He'll make a high-class hunter—for paper, rags and old iron.'
"'How did you know that horse was string-halted so quick?' says Brown to me when the guy has gone.
"'I told you I can smell a dink,' I says. But I don't tell him what I sees at the door.
"'I think we could use you and your nose around here,' he says. 'Are you stuck on Chicago?'
"'Me fur this joint,' I says, lookin' 'round. 'Do I have to get my hair waved more 'n' twict a week?'
"'We'll waive that in your case,' he says, laughin' at his bum joke.
"'Don't do that again,' I says. 'I've a notion to quit right here.'
"'I'd hate to lose an old employee like you—I'll have to be more careful,' he says—'n' I'm workin' fur Mr. Brown.
"About a week after this, I'm bringin' a hackney up to the showroom fur Brown to look at, when a young chap dressed like a shoffer stops me.
"'I wish to see Mr. Brown, my man,' he says. 'Can you tell me where he is?'
"No shofe can spring this 'my man' stuff on me, 'n' get away with it. But a blind kitten can see this guy's all the gravy. There's somethin' about him makes you think the best ain't near as good as he wants. I tells him to come along with me, 'n' when we gets up to the showroom he sticks a card at Brown.
"'Yes, indeed—Mr. Van Voast!' says Brown, when he squints at the card. 'You're almost the only member of your family I have been unable to serve. I believe I have read that you are devoted to the motor game.'
"'That's an indiscretion I hope to rectify—I want a hunter,' says the young chap.
"'Take that horse down and bring up Sally Waters,' says Brown to me.
"This Sally Waters is a chestnut mare that's kep' in a big stall where she gets the best light 'n' air in the buildin'. A lot of guys have looked at her, but the price is so fierce nobody takes her.
"'Is that the best you have?' says the young chap, when I gets back with her.
"'Yes, Mr. Van Voast,' says Brown. 'And she's as good as ever stood on four legs! She'll carry your weight nicely, too.'
"'Is she fast?' says the young chap.
"'After racing at ninety miles an hour, anything in horse-flesh would seem slow to you, I presume,' says Brown. 'But she is an extremely fast hunter, and very thorough at a fence.'
"'Do you know Ferguson's Macbeth?' says the young chap.
"'I ought to,' says Brown. 'We imported Macbeth and Mr. Ferguson bought him from me.'
"The young chap studies a minute.
"'I might as well tell you that I want a hunter to beat Macbeth for the Melford Cup,' he says at last.
"'Oh, oh!' says Brown. 'That's too large an order, Mr. Van Voast—I can't fill it.'
"'You don't think this mare can beat Macbeth?' says the young chap.
"'No, sir, I do not,' says Brown. 'Nor any other hunter I ever saw. There might be something in England that would be up to it, but I don't know what it would be—and money wouldn't buy it if I knew.'
"The young chap won't look at the mare no more, 'n' Brown tells me to put her up. I hustles her back to the stall, 'n' goes down to the street door 'n' waits. There's a big gray automobile at the curb, with six guns stickin' out of her side in front—she looks like a battle-ship. Pretty soon the young chap comes out 'n' starts to board her 'n' I braces him.
"'I think I know where you can get the hoss you're lookin' fur,' I says.
"He stares at me kind-a puzzled fur a minute.
"'Oh, yes, you are the man who brought the mare up-stairs,' he says. 'What leads you to believe you can find a hunter good enough to beat Macbeth?'
"'I ain't said nothin' about a hunter,' I says. 'Would you stand fur a ringer?'
"'I think I get your inference,' he says. 'Be a little more specific, please.'
"'If I puts you hep to a hoss that ain't no more a hunter than that automobile,' I says, 'but can run like the buzz-wagon 'n' jump like a hunter—could you use him in your business?'
"'What sort of a horse would that be?' he says.
"'A thoroughbred,' I says. 'A bang-tail.'
"'Oh—a runner,' he says. 'Do you know anything about the runners?'
"'A few,' I says. 'I'm on the track nine years.'
"'What are you doing here?' he says.
"'Ruled off,' I says.
"'Hm-m!' he says. 'What for?'
"'Ringin',' I says.
"'You seem to run to that sort of thing,' he says. 'What's your name?' he asks.
"'Blister Jones,' I says.
"'Delightful!' he says. 'I'm glad I met you. Who has this remarkable horse?'
"'Peewee Simpson,' I says.
"'Equally delightful! I'd like to meet him, too,' he says.
"'He's in Loueyville,' I says.
"'Regrettable,' he says. 'What's the name of his horse?'
"'Rainbow,' I says.
"'And I thought this was to be a dull day,' he says. 'Jump in here and take a ride. I don't know that I care to go rainbow-chasing assisted by Blisters, and Peewees—but nefarious undertakings have always appealed to me, and I desire to cultivate your acquaintance.'
"We goes fur a long ride in the battle-ship. He don't say much—just asks questions 'n' listens to my guff. At last I opens up on the Rainbow deal, 'n' I tries all I know to get him goin'—I sure slips him some warm conversation.
"'You heard what Brown said of Macbeth!' he says. 'Why are you so certain this Rainbow can beat him in a steeplechase?'
"'Why, listen, man!' I says. 'This Rainbow is the best ever. He can beat any brush-topper now racin' if the handicapper don't overload him. He's been coppin' where they race your eyeballs off. He's been makin' good against the real thing. He's a thoroughbred! If he turns in one of these here parlor races fur gents, with a bunch of hunters, they won't know which way he went!'
"'The runners I have seen are all neck and legs. They don't look like hunters at all,' he says.
"'You're thinkin' about these here flat-shouldered sprinters,' I says. 'This Rainbow is a brush-topper. He's got a pair of shoulders on him 'n' he's the jumpin'est thoroughbred ever I saw. Course he's rangier 'n most huntin'-bred hosses, but with a curb to put some bow in his neck, he'll pass fur a hunter anywhere!'
"'There is one sad thing I haven't told you,' he says. 'I must ride the horse myself.'
"'What's sad about that?' I says. 'You ain't much over a hundred 'n' forty, at a guess.'
"'The trouble is not with my weight—it's my disposition,' he says. 'I have not ridden for ten years. In fact I never rode much. To tell you the truth—I'm afraid of a horse.'
"Say—I'd liked that young chap fine till then! I think he's handin' me a josh at first.
"'You're kiddin' me, ain't you?' I says.
"'No,' he says. 'I'm not kidding you. I've fought my fear of horses since I was old enough to think. Lately it has become necessary for me to ride, and I'm going to do it—it it kills me!'
"We were back to my joint by this time 'n' he looks at me 'n' laughs.
"'Cheer up!' he says. 'I'll think over what you told me and let you know. I go over to Philadelphia to-morrow to race in a "buzz-wagon," as you call it. I don't want you to think me entirely chicken-hearted—and I'll take you with me, if Brown can spare you.'
"The next day he shows up in the battle-ship.
"'Blister,' he says, 'I don't know just how far I'll be willing to go in the affair, but if you can get Rainbow, I'll buy him.'
"'Now you've said somethin',' I says. 'Head fur the nearest telegraph office 'n' I'll wire Peewee.'
"'They're likely to ask a stiff price fur this hoss,' I says when we gets to the telegraph office.
"'Buy him,' he says.
"'Do you mean the sky's the limit?' I says, 'n' he nods.
"We cross on the ferry after sendin' the wire. He has the battle-ship under wraps till we hit the open country, 'n' then he lets her step. We gets to goin' faster 'n' faster. I can't see, 'n' I think my eyebrows have blowed off. I'm so scared I feel like my stumick has crawled up in my chest, but I hopes this is the limit, 'n' I grits my teeth to keep from yelpin'. Just then we hits a long straight road, 'n' what we'd been doin' before seemed like backin' up. I can't breathe 'n' I can't stand no more of it.
"'Holy cats!' I yells. 'Cut it!'
"'What's the matter?' he says, when he's slowed down.
"'Holy cats!' I says again. 'Is that what racin' in these things is like?'
"'Oh, no,' he says. 'My mechanic took my racing car over yesterday. This is only a roadster.'
"'Only a—what?' I says.
"'Only a roadster—a pleasure car,' he says.
"'Oh—a pleasure car,' I says. 'It's lucky you told me.'
"'It's all in getting accustomed to it,' he says.
"I spends the night at a hotel in Philadelphia with a guy named Ben, who's the mechanic, 'n' the next mawnin' I sees the race. Say! Prize-fightin', or war, or any of them little games is like button-button to this automobile racin'! They kills two guys that day 'n' why they ain't all killed is by me. The young chap finishes second to some Eyetalian—but that Dago sure knowed he'd been in a race.
"''N' he's the guy that's afraid of a hoss!' I says to myself. 'Now, wouldn't that scald you?'
"When he leaves me at my joint in New York the young chap writes on a card 'n' hands it to me.
"'Here's my name and present address,' he says. 'Let me know when you hear from our friend Peewee.'
"Printed on the card is 'Mr. William Dumont Van Voast,' 'n' in pencil, 'Union Club, New York City.'
"The next day I gets a wire from Peewee in answer to mine.
"'Sound as a dollar. Eighteen hundred bones buys him. P. W. Simpson,' it says.
"I phones Mr. Van, 'n' he says to go to it—so I wires Peewee.
"'Check on delivery if sound. You know me. Ship with swipe first express. Blister Jones.'
"In two days Duckfoot Johnson leads ole Rainbow into the joint, 'n' I tells Brown it's a hoss fur Mr. Van. I looks him over good 'n' he's O. K. I gets Mr. Van on the phone 'n' he comes up 'n' writes a check fur eighteen hundred, payable to Peewee. He gives this to Duckfoot, slips him twenty-five bucks fur hisself, 'n' hands him the fare back to Loueyville besides.
"'What next?' says Mr. Van to me. 'Do we need a burglar's kit, and some nitroglycerin, or does that class of crime come later?'
"'We want a vet. right now,' I says. 'This bird has got to lose some tail feathers.'
"'Well, you are the chief buccaneer!' says Mr. Van. 'I'll serve as one of the pirate crew at present. When you have the good ship Rainbow shortened at the stem and ready to carry the jolly Roger over the high seas—I should say, fences—let me know. In the meantime,' he says, slippin' me five twenties, 'here are some pieces-of-eight with which to buy cutlasses, hand grenades and other things we may need.'
"I has the vet. dock Rainbow's tail, 'n' as soon as it heals I lets Mr. Van know. He tells me to bring the hoss to Morrisville, New Jersey, on the three o'clock train next day.
"When I unloads from the express car at Morrisville, there's Mr. Van and a shoffer in the battle-ship.
"'Just follow along behind, Blister!' says Mr. Van, 'n' drives off slow down the street.
"We go through town 'n' out to a big white house, with pillars down the front. Mr. Van stops the battle-ship at the gates.
"'Take the car to the Williamson place—Mr. Williamson understands,' he says to the shofe.
"I wonders why he stops out here—it's a quarter of a mile to the house. When we gets to the house there's an old gent, with gray hair, settin' on the porch. He gets up when he sees us, 'n' limps down the steps with a cane.
"'Don't disturb yourself, Governor!' says Mr. Van. 'Anybody here?'
"'No, I'm alone,' says the old gent. 'Your sister is with the Dandridges. Your man came this morning, so I was expecting you.' Then he looks at Rainbow. 'What's that?' he says.
"'A horse I've bought,' says Mr. Van. 'I'm thinking of going in for hunting.'
"'Oh! She's brought you to it, has she?' says the old gent. 'I never could. Why do you bring the horse here?'
"Mr. Van flushes up.
"'You know what a duffer I am on a horse, Governor,' he says. 'Well, I want to try for the Melford Cup. I'd like to build a course on the place, and school myself under your direction.'
"'Ah, ha!' says the old gent. 'And then the conquering hero will descend on Melford, to capture the place in general, and one of its fair daughters in particular!'
"'Something like that,' says Mr. Van.
"'I'll be glad to help you all I can,' says the old gent, 'just so long as you don't bring one of those stinking things you usually inhabit on these premises!'
"'It's a bargain. I've already sent the one I came in to Ralph Williamson,' says Mr. Van, 'n' we takes Rainbow to the stables.
"I liked Mr. Van's old man right away, 'n' when he finds out I knows as much about a hoss as he does, he treats me like a brother.
"He gets busy quick, 'n' has the men fix up a mile course on the place with eight fences in it—some of 'em fierce.
"'Twice around, and you have the Melford course to a dot,' he says. 'Now, young man,' he says to me, 'you get the horse ready and I'll go to work on the rider.' 'N' believe me, he does it.
"His bum leg won't let him ride no more, but he puts Mr. Van on a good steady jumper, 'n' drives besides the course in a cart, tellin' him what to do. He keeps Mr. Van goin' till I think he'll put him out of business—'n' say!—but he cusses wicked when things don't go to suit him!
"'Stick your knees in and keep your backbone limber! Hold his head up now at this jump—don't drag at his mouth that way! Why! damn it all!… you haven't as good hands as a cab-driver,' is the kind of stuff he keeps yellin' at poor Mr. Van.
"I'm workin' Rainbow each day, 'n' in three weeks I take him twice around the course at a good clip.
"'The hoss'll do in another week,' I says to the old gent.
"'I'll be ready fur you,' he says, shuttin' his mouth, 'n' that was the worst week of all for Mr. Van. But he improved wonderful, 'n' one mawnin' he takes Rainbow over the course at speed.
"'Not half bad!' says the old gent when they come back. 'He's not up to his horse yet,' he says to me. 'But between 'em they'll worry that Melford crowd some, or I miss my guess!'
"A day or so after that we starts for Melford. The old gent says good-by to me, 'n' then he sticks out his mitt at Mr. Van.
"'God bless you, boy!' he says. 'I wish you luck both in the race and—elsewhere.'
"Say, this Melford is the horsiest burg ever I saw! They don't do nothin' but ride 'em 'n' drive 'em 'n' chew the rag about 'em—men 'n' women the same. Even the kids has toppy little ponies and has hoss shows fur their stuff.
"They has what they call a Hunt Club, 'n' everybody hangs out there. This club gives the cup Mr. Van wants to win. The race fur it is pulled off once a year, 'n' only club members can enter.
"The Ferguson guy has won the race twice with the Macbeth hoss 'n' if he wins it again he keeps the cup. The race is due in two weeks, but there ain't much talk about it—everybody knows Ferguson'll win sure.
"This Ferguson has all the kale in the world. He lives in a house so big it looks like the Waldorf. But from what I hear, the bloods ain't so awful strong fur him—except his ridin', they all take their hats off to that.
"There's a girl named Livingston 's the best rider among the dames, 'n', believe me, she's a swell doll—she's the niftiest filly I ever gets my lamps on—she's all to the peaches 'n' cream.
"It don't take me long to see that Mr. Van is nutty, right, about this one, but it looks like Ferguson has the bulge on him, 'cause her 'n' Ferguson is always out in front when they chase the hounds, 'n' they ride together a lot. We're at Mr. Van's brother's place, 'n' when we first get there Mr. Van puts me wise.
"'Blister,' he says, 'you must now assume the disguise of a groom. While you and I know we are partners in crime, custom requires an outward change in our heretofore delightful relationship—keep your eyes open and act accordingly.'
"I'm dead hep to what he means, 'n' when I'm rigged up like all the rest of the swipes around there, I touches my hat to him whenever he tells me anythin'.
"Everybody joshes Mr. Van about his ridin', but they get over that sudden—the first time he chases hounds with 'em ole Rainbow 'n' him stays right at the head of the procession. I'm waitin' at the club to take the hoss home after the run. When Mr. Van is turnin' him over to me Miss Livingston comes up.
"'I'm so proud of you!' she says to him. 'It was splendid … I told you you could do anything you tried!'
"'Rainbow's the chap who deserves your approval,' says Mr. Van, pointin' to the hoss.
"'Indeed, he does—the old precious!' she says, 'n' rubs her face against Rainbow's nose. Just then Ferguson rides up with a English gink who's a friend of Mr. Van's, 'n' the dame beats it into the club-house. This Englishman is a lord or a duke or somethin', 'n' he's visitin' Mr. Van's brother. Ferguson ain't on Macbeth. He's rode a bay mare that day, 'n' Rainbow has outrun 'n' out-jumped her.
"'That's quite a horse you have there, Van,' Ferguson says. 'A bit leggy—isn't he?'
"'Perhaps he is,' says Mr. Van. 'But I like something that can get over the country.'
"'Going to enter him for the cup?' says Ferguson.
"'I don't know yet,' says Mr. Van, careless. 'I must see the committee, and tell them his antecedents—this horse rather outclasses most hunters.'
"'He doesn't outclass mine, over the cup course, for five thousand!' says Ferguson, gettin' red.
"'Done!' says Mr. Van, quiet-like. 'If the committee says I'm eligible we'll settle it in the cup race. If not, we can run a match.'
"'Entirely satisfactory,' says Ferguson, 'n' starts to go. But he comes back, 'n' looks at Mr. Van wicked. 'By the way,' he says, 'money doesn't interest either of us at present. Suppose we raise the stake this way—the loser will take a trip abroad, for a year, and in the meantime we both agree to let matters rest—in a certain quarter.'
"'Done!' says Mr. Van again. He looks at the other guy colder 'n ice when he says it.
"Ferguson nods to him 'n' rides off.
"The English gink has heard the bet, 'n' when Ferguson beats it he shakes his head.
"'Aw, old chap!' he says. 'That's a bit raw—don't you think? I'm sorry you let him draw you. It's a beastly mess.'
"'I'm not afraid of him and his horse!' says Mr. Van. But I can see he ain't feelin' joyous.
"'Damn him and his hawss—and you too!' says the English gink. 'Aw, it's the young girl you've dragged into it, Billy!'
"'It's a confidential matter, and no names were mentioned,' says Mr. Van.
"'Don't quibble, old chap!' says the English gink. 'The name's nothing. And as for its being confidential—Ferguson is sure to tell that—aw—French puppy he's so thick with, and the viscawnt'll be—aw—tea-tabling it about by five o'clock!'
"'You're right, of course,' says Mr. Van, slow. 'It was a low thing to do—a cad's trick. No wonder you English are so rotten superior. You don't need brains—the right thing's bred into your bones. Your tempers never show you up. We revert to the gutter at the pinch.'
"'Oh, I say! That's bally nonsense!' says the English gink. 'I would have done the same thing.'
"'Not unless the fifteen hundred years it's taken to make you were wiped off the slate,' says Mr. Van. 'However, I'll have to see it through now.'
"The guys that run the club say Rainbow can start in the cup race. Mr. Van tells me, 'n' the next week I watch him while he sends the hoss over the course. We're comin' up towards the club-house, after the work-out, 'n' we run into Miss Livingston. She hands Mr. Van the icy stare 'n' he starts to say something but she breaks in.
"'I wonder you care to waste any words on a mere racing wager,' she says.
"'Please let me try to explain …' says Mr. Van.
"'There can be no explanation. What you did was the act of a boor—and a fool,' says the dame, 'n' walks on by.
"I think over what she says. 'She's more sore cause she thinks he'll lose than anythin' else,' I says to myself. 'He ain't in so bad, after all.' But Mr. Van don't tumble. He's awful glum from then on.
"There's a fierce mob of swells at the course the day of the race, classy rigs as far as you can see. The last thing I says to Mr. Van is:
"'You've got the step of them any place in the route, but you're on a thoroughbred, 'n' he'll run hisself into the ground if you let him. You don't know how to rate him right—so stay close to the Macbeth hoss till you come to the last fence, then turn Rainbow loose, 'n' he'll make his stretch-run alone.'
"There's six entries, but the race is between Rainbow and Macbeth from the get-away. Macbeth is a black hoss, 'n' I never believed till then a hunter could romp that fast. He was three len'ths ahead of the field at the first fence, with Rainbow right at his necktie. They gets so far ahead, nobody sees the other starters from the second fence on. Mr. Van rides just like I tells him, 'n' lets the black hoss make the pace. Man!—that hunter did run! Towards the end both hosses begin to tire, but the clip was easier fur the thoroughbred, 'n' I see Rainbow's got the most left.
"Before they come to the last fence Mr. Van turns his hoss loose like I tells him, 'n' he starts to come away from Macbeth. My! but those swells did holler! They never thought Rainbow has a chance. At the last fence he's a len'th in front, 'n' right there it happens Mr. Van don't take hold of him enough to keep his head up, 'n' he blunders at the fence 'n' comes down hard on his knees. Mr. Van slides clear to the hoss's ears, 'n' the crowd gives a groan as Macbeth comes over 'n' goes by.
"'He's gone!' I says to myself, 'n' I can't believe it when he gets back in the saddle somehow 'n' starts to ride. But the black hoss has a good six len'ths 'n' now two hundred yards to go.
"'He'll never reach …' I says out loud. 'He'll never reach …'
"Then Rainbow begins his stretch-run with the blood comin' out of his knees, 'n' while he's a tired hoss, a gamer one never looks through a bridle. I ain't knockin' that hunter—there was no canary in him, but I think a game thoroughbred's the gamest hoss that lives!
"Ole Rainbow is a straight line from his nose to his tail. His ears is flat 'n' his mouth's half open fur air. Every jump he takes looks thirty feet long 'n' he's gettin' to the black hoss fast. I'm watchin' the distance to go 'n' all of a sudden I furgets where I am—.
"'He wins sure as hell!' I hollers.
"'Oh, will he?' says a voice. I looks up 'n' there's Miss Livingston sittin' on her hoss, her fists doubled up 'n' her face whiter'n chalk.
"About ten len'ths from the finish Rainbow gets to the black 'n' they look each other in the eye. But them long jumps of the thoroughbred breaks the hunter's heart, 'n' Rainbow comes away, 'n' wins by a len'th.…
"After I've cooled Rainbow out, 'n' bandaged his knees at the club stables, I starts fur home with him.
"I'm just leavin' the main road, to take the short cut, when Miss Livingston gallops by, with a groom trailin'. She looks up the cross-road, sees me 'n' the hoss, 'n' reins in. She says somethin' to the groom 'n' he goes on.
"Miss Livingston comes up the crossroad alone, 'n' stops when she gets to us.
"'Is that Rainbow?' she says.
"'Yes'm,' I says.
"'Help me down, please,' she says. I tries to do it, but I don't make a good job of it.
"'You're not a lady's groom?' she says, smilin'.
"'No'm,' I says.
"'I should like to pat the winner;' she says. 'May I?'
"'Go as far as you like,' I says.
"'I beg pardon?' she says, lookin' at me funny.
"'Yes'm, you can pat him,' I says.
"She takes Rainbow by the head, 'n' sort of hugs it, 'n' rubs the tips of her fingers over his eyelids. Then she whispers to him, but I hears it.
"'Old precious!' she says. 'I've always loved Rainbows! Do you bring a fair day, too?'
"Just then a black auto sneaks around the bend of the main road, 'n' Mr. Van's drivin' it. He sees us, stops, 'n' comes up the side road to where we are. She don't hear him till he's right close. Then she backs away from Rainbow.
"'I thought you might become tired of your sudden interest in hunting, Mr. Van Voast,' she says. 'And I should like to own this horse—I was just looking at him,' she tries to say it haughty, but it don't seem to scare him none. He looks at her steady.
"'If I give you a rainbow, will you give me its equivalent?' he says.
"'A pot of gold? Yes— How much will you take?' she says, but she don't look at him no more.
"'A pot of gold is at the end,' he says. 'This is the beginning, dear.… I want a promise.'
"'That would be a fair exchange, would it not?' she says, 'n' looks up at him. I never see eyes look like that before. They puts me in mind of when the band's playin' as the hosses go to the post fur the Kentucky Derby.
"'Blister,' says Mr. Van, 'show the horses the view over the hill; they'll enjoy it.'
"I'm on my way in a hurry, but hears her say:
"'Oh, Billy, not here!'
"They don't come along fur half an hour. When they does, Mr. Van says to me:
"'Lead Rainbow to the Livingston stables, Blister. He has a new owner.'
"'Does you get a good price fur him?' I says, like I don't tumble to nothin'.
"'What a remarkable groom!' says Miss Livingston.
"'Isn't he?' says Mr. Van. Then he comes 'n' grabs me by the mitt. 'Don't worry about the price, old boy,' he says. 'No horse ever brought so much before!'"
SALVATION
At the invitation of Blister Jones I had come from the city's heat to witness the morning "work-outs". For two hours horse after horse had shot by, leaving a golden dust-cloud to hang and drift and slowly settle.
It was fairly cool under the big tree by the track fence, and the click of Blister's stop-watch, with his varied comments on what those clicks recorded, drifted out of my consciousness much as had the dust-clouds. Even the thr-rump, thr-rump, thr-rump of flying hoofs—crescendo, fortissimo, diminuendo—finally became meaningless.
"Here's one bred to suit you!" rasped a nasal voice, and I sat up, half awake, to observe a tall man lead a thorough-bred on to the track and dexterously "throw" a boy into the tiny saddle.
"Why?" Blister questioned.
"He's by Salvation," explained the tall man. "Likely-lookin' colt, ain't he? Think he favors the old hoss any?"
"'Bout the head he does," Blister answered. "He won't girt as big as the old hoss did at the same age."
"Well, if he's half as good as his daddy he's some hoss at that," the tall man stated, as he started up the track, watch in hand.
Blister followed the colt with his eyes.
"Ever hear of Salvation?" he finally asked.
"Oh, yes," I replied.
"Well, I brings out Salvation as a three-year-old, 'n' what happens is quite a bunch of chatter—want to hear it?"
"You know it," I said, dropping into Blister's vernacular.
"That's pretty good for you," he said, grinning at my slang. "Well, to begin with, I'm in Loueyville. It's in the fall, 'n' I'm just back from Sheepshead. One way 'n' another I've had a good year. I'm down on two or three live ones when the odds are right, 'n' I've grabbed off a bundle I ain't ashamed to flash in any kind of company.
"My string's been shipped South, 'n' I thinks I'll knock around Kentucky fur a couple of weeks, 'n' see if I can't pick up some hosses to train.
"One mawnin' I'm in the Gait House, lookin' fur a hossman that's stoppin' there, 'n' I see Peewee Simpson settin' in the lobby like he'd just bought the hotel.
"'Who left the door open?' I says to him.
"'It's still open, I see,' says Peewee, lookin' at me.
"We exchanges a few more remarks, 'n' then Peewee tells me he's come to Loueyville to buy some yearlin's fur ole man Harris.
"'There's a dispersal sale to-morrow at the Goodloe farm,' says Peewee. ''N' I hear there's some real nice stuff going under the hammer. General Goodloe croaked this spring. They cleaned him in a cotton deal last year 'n' now their goin' to sell the whole works—studs, brood mares, colts—everything; plows, too—you want a plow? All you need is a plow 'n' a mule to put you where you belong.'
"'Where's this farm at?' I says.
"'Over in Franklin County,' says Peewee. 'I'm goin' over—want to go 'long?'
"'You're on,' I says. 'I'm not particular who travels with me any more.'
"We gets off the train next mawnin' at a little burg called Goodloe, 'n' there's three or four niggers with three or four ratty-lookin' ole rigs to drive hossmen out to the sale. It's a fierce drive, 'n' the springs is busted on our rig. I thinks we'll never get there, 'n' I begins to cuss Peewee fur bringin' me.
"'What you got to kick at?' says Peewee. 'Ain't you gettin' a free ride? Cheer up—think of all the nice plows you're goin' to see.'
"'You take them plows to hell 'n' make furrows in the cinders with 'em,' I says, wonderin' if I can get a train back to Loueyville anyways soon.
"But when we gets to the farm I'm glad I come. Man, that was some farm! Miles of level blue-grass pasture, with white fences cuttin' it up into squares, barns 'n' paddocks 'n' sheds, all painted white, just scattered around by the dozen. There's a track to work hosses on, too, but it's pretty much growed up with weeds. The main house is back in some big trees. It's brick 'n' has two porches, one on top of the other, all the way around it.
"The sale is just startin' when we get there. The auctioneer is in the judge's stand at the track 'n' the hosses is showed in the stretch.
"The first thing to sell is brood mares, 'n' they're as good a lot as I ever looks over. I loses Peewee in the crowd, 'n' climbs on to a shed roof to see better.
"Pretty soon here comes a real ole nigger leadin' a mare that looks to be about as old as the nigger. At that she showed class. Her head's still fine, 'n' her legs ain't got so much as a pimple on 'em.
"'Number eleven in your catalogues, gentlemen!' says the auctioneer. 'Mary Goodloe by Victory, first dam Dainty Maid by—what's the use of tellin' you her breedin', you all know her! Gentlemen,' he says, 'how many of you can say you ever owned a Kentucky Derby winner? Well, here's your chance to own one! This mare won the derby in—er—
"'Eighty-three, suh—I saw her do it,' says a man with a white mustache.
"'Eighty-three, thank you, Colonel. You have a fine memory,' says the auctioneer. 'I saw her do it, too. Now, gentlemen,' he says, 'what am I offered for this grand old mare? She's the dam of six winners—three of 'em stake hosses. Kindly start the bidding.'
"'Twenty dollahs!' says the ole nigger who has hold of the mare.
"'Fifty!' says some one else.
"'Hole on dah,' sings out the ole nigger. 'I'se just 'bliged to tell you folks I'se pu'chasin' dis hyar mare fo' Miss Sally Goodloe!'
"The auctioneer looks at the guy who bids fifty.
"'I withdraw that bid,' says the guy.
"'Sold to you for twenty dollars, Uncle Jake,' says the auctioneer. 'Bring on number twelve!'
"'Hyah's yo' twenty dollahs,' says the ole nigger, fishin' out a roll of raggedy bills and passin' 'em up to the stand.
"'Thank you, Uncle Jake. Come to the clerk for your bill of sale this evenin',' says the auctioneer.
"I watches the sale a while longer, 'n' then mooches into the big barn where the yearlin's 'n' two-year-olds is waitin' to be sold. They're a nice lot of colts, but I ain't interested in this young stuff—colts is too much of a gamble fur me. Only about one in fifty'll make good. Somebody else can spend their money on 'em at that kind of odds.
"I goes out of the colt barn 'n' begins to ramble around, lampin' things in general. I comes to a shed full of plows, 'n' I has to laugh when I sees 'em. I'm standin' there with a grin on my face when a nigger comes 'round the shed 'n' sees me lookin' at them plows.
"'Fine plows, sah, an' vehy cheap,' he says.
"'Do I look like I needs a plow?' I says to him.
"'No, sah,' says the nigger, lookin' me over. 'I cyant rightly say you favohs plowin', but howkum you ain' tendin' de sale?'
"'I don't see nothin' over there that suits me,' I says.
"The nigger is sore in a minute.
"'You is suttanly hahd to please, white man,' he says. 'Ain' no finah colts in Kaintucky dan dem.'
"'That may be so, but how about Tennessee?' I says, just to get him goin'.
"'Tennessee! Tennessee!' he says. 'What you talkin' 'bout? Why, we does de fahm wuck wid likelier colts dan dey sends to de races.'
"'I've seed some nifty babies down there,' I says.
"'Look-a-hyar, man!' he says, 'you want to see a colt what am a colt?'
"'How far?' I says.
"'No ways at all, jus' over yondah,' says the nigger.
"'Lead me to it,' I say to him, 'n' he takes me over to a long lane with paddocks down each side of it. All the paddocks is empty but two. In the first one is the ole mare, Mary Goodloe; 'n' next to her is a slashin' big chestnut colt.
"'Cast yo' eyes on dat one!' says the nigger.
"I don't say nothin' fur five minutes. I just looks at that colt. I never sees one like him before, nor since. There's some dead leaves blowin' around the paddock 'n' he's jumpin' on 'em with his front feet like a setter pup playin'. Two jumps 'n' he's clear across the paddock! His shoulders 'n' quarters 'n' legs is made to order. His head 'n' throat-latch is clean as a razor, 'n' he's the proudest thing that ever stood on four legs. He looks to be comin' three, but he's muscled like a five-year-old.
"'How 'bout him, boss?' says the nigger after a while.
"'Well,' I says, 'they broke the mold when they made that one!'
"'Dar's de mold,' he says, pointin' to the ole mare in the next paddock. 'She's his mammy. Dat's Mahey Goodloe, named fo' ole Miss Goodloe what's dade. Dat mare win de derby. Dis hyar colt's by impo'ted Calabash.'
"'When does this colt sell?' I asks him.
"'He ain' fo' sale,' says the nigger. 'De estate doan own him. De General done gib him to Miss Sally when de colt's bohn.'
"'Where's she at now?' I says to the nigger. I had to own that colt if my roll could reach him—I knowed that 'fore I'd looked at him a minute.
"'Up to de house, mos' likely,' says the nigger. 'You'd better save yo' shoe leather, boss. She ain' gwine to sell dat colt no matter what happens.'
"I beats it up to the big house, but when I gets there I see nobody's livin' in it. The windows has boards across 'em. I looks in between the cracks 'n' sees a whale of a room. Hangin' from the ceilin' is two things fur lights all covered with glass dingles. They ain't nothin' else in the room but a tall mirror, made of gold, that goes clear to the ceilin'. I walks clean around the house, but it's sure empty, so I oozes back to the barns 'n' collars the sales clerk.
"'I'm a-lookin' fur Miss Goodloe,' I tells him. 'A nigger says she's at the house, but I've just been up there 'n' they ain't even furniture in it.'
"'No,' says the clerk; 'the furniture was sold to a New York collector two weeks ago. Miss Goodloe is livin' in the head trainer's house across the road yonder. She won't have that long, I don't reckon, though I did hear she's fixin' to buy it when the farm sells, with some money ole Mrs. Goodloe left her.'
"I goes over to the little house the clerk points out, 'n' knocks. A right fat nigger woman, with her sleeves rolled up, comes to the door.
"'What you want?' she says.
"'I want to see Miss Goodloe,' I says.
"'You cyant see her. She ain' seein' nobody,' says the nigger woman, 'n' starts to shut the door.
"'Wait a minute, aunty," I says. 'I got to see her—it's business, sure-enough business.'
"'Doan you aunty me!' says she. 'Now, you take yo' bisniss with you an' ramble! Bisniss has done sole off eve'y stick an' stone we got! I doan want to hyar no mo' 'bout bisniss long as I live'—'n' bang goes the door.
"I waits a minute 'n' then knocks again—nothin' doin'. I knocks fur five minutes steady. Pretty soon here she comes, but this time she's got a big brass-handled poker with her.
"'Ef I has to clout you ovah de haid wid dis pokah you ain' gwine to transack no mo' bisniss fo' a tollable long time!' she says. She's mad all right, 'n' she hollers this at me pretty loud.
"'Fore I can say anythin' a dame steps out in the hall 'n' looks at me 'n' the nigger woman 'n' the poker.
"'What's the matter, Liza?' she says to the nigger woman, 'n' her voice is good to listen at. You don't care what she says, just so she keeps a-sayin' it. She's got on a white dress with black fixin's on it, 'n' she just suits her dress, 'cause her hair is dark 'n' her face is white, 'n' she has great big eyes that put me in mind of—I don't know what! She ain't very tall, but she makes me feel littler'n her when she looks at me. She's twenty-four or five, mebby, but I'm a bum guesser at a dame's age.
"'Dis pusson boun' he gwine to see you an' I boun' he ain', Miss Sally,' says the nigger woman. The little dame comes out on the porch.
"'I am Miss Goodloe,' she says to me. 'What do you wish?'
"'I want to buy a hoss from you, ma'am,' I says to her.
"'The horses are being sold across the way at that biggest barn,' she says.
"'Yes'm,' I says, 'I've just come from there. I—'
"'Have you been watching the sale?' she says, breakin' in.
"'Yes'm—some,' I says.
"'Liza, you may go to your kitchen now,' she says. 'Can you tell me if they have sold the mare, Mary Goodloe, yet?' she says to me when the nigger woman's gone.
"'Yes'm, she was sold,' I says.
"She flinches like I'd hit her 'n' I see her chin begin to quiver, but she bites her lip 'n' I looks off down the road to give her a chance. Pretty soon she's back fur more. I'm feelin' like a hound.
"'Do you know who bought her?' she says.
"'A nigger man they call Uncle Jake buys her,' I says.
"'Uncle Jake!' she says. 'Are you sure? Was he an old man with poor eyesight?'
"'He was old all right,' I says. 'But I don't notice about his eyes. He give twenty dollars fur her.'
"'Is that all she brought?' she says.
"'Well, she brings more,' I says, 'only the ole man makes a speech 'n' tells 'em he's buying her fur you. Everybody quit biddin' then.' She stands there a minute, her eyes gettin' bigger 'n' bigger. I never see eyes so big 'n' soft 'n' dark.
"'Would you do me a favor?' she says at last.
"'Fifty of 'em,' I says. She gives me a little smile.
"'One's all that's necessary, thank you,' she says. 'Will you find Uncle Jake for me and tell him I wish to see him?'
"'You bet I will,' I says, 'n' I beats it over to the barns… I finds Uncle Jake, 'n' he's got weak eyes all right—he can't hardly see. He's got rheumatism, too—he's all crippled up with it. When I gets back with him, Miss Goodloe's still standin' on the porch.
"'I want to find out who bought old Mary, Uncle Jake,' she says. 'Do you know?'
"'I was jus' fixin' to come over hyar an' tell you de good news, Miss Sally,' says Uncle Jake. 'When dey puts ole Mahey up to' sale, she look pow'ful ole an' feeble. De autioneer jes 'seeches 'em fo' to make some sawt o' bid, but hit ain' no use. Dey doan' nobody want her. Hit look lak de auctioneer in a bad hole—he doan' know what to do zakly. Hit's gittin' mighty 'bahassin' fo' him, so I say to him: "Mr. Auctioneer, I ain' promisin' nothin', but Miss Sally Goodloe mought be willin' to keep dis hyar ole mare fo' 'membrance sake." De auctioneer am mighty tickled, an' he say, "Uncle Jake, ef Miss Sally will 'soom de 'sponsibility ob dis ole mare, hit would 'blige me greatly." Dat's howkum ole Mahey back safe in de paddock, an' dey ain' nobody gwine to take her away fum you, honey!'
"'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.