Blister Jones | Page 6

"'Are you the owner of Count Noble, Mr.--er--?'
"'Jones, sir,' I says.
"'Jones?' says the colonel.
"'Yes, sir,' I says.

"'Mr. Jones,' says the colonel, 'how do you account for the fact that on
Thursday Count Noble performs disgracefully, and on Saturday runs
like a stake horse? Have the days of the week anything to do with it?'
"I never says nothin'. I just stands there lookin' at him, foolin' with my
hat.
"'This is hell," I thinks.
"'The judges are interested in this phenomenon, Mr. Jones, and we have
sent for you, thinking perhaps you can throw a little light on the matter,'
says the colonel, 'n' waits fur me again.
"'Come on . . . get busy!' I says to myself. 'You can kid along with a
bunch of bums, 'n' it sounds good--don't get cold feet the first time
some class opens his bazoo at you!' But I can't make a noise like a word,
on a bet.
"'The judges, upon looking over the betting sheets of the two races in
which your horse appeared, find them quite interesting,' says the
colonel. 'The odds were short in the race he did not win; they remained
unchanged--in fact, rose--since only a small amount was wagered on
his chances. On the other hand, these facts are reversed in to-day's race,
which he won. It seems possible that you and your friends who were
pessimists on Thursday became optimists today, and benefited by the
change. Have you done so?'
"I see I has to get some sort-a language out of me.
"'He was a better hoss to-day--that's all I knows about it,' I says.
"'The first part of your statement seems well within the facts,' says the
colonel. 'He was, apparently, a much better horse to-day. But these
gentlemen and myself, having the welfare of the American
thoroughbred at heart, would be glad to learn by what method he was
so greatly improved.'
"I don't know why I ever does it, but it comes to me how Duckfoot

leaves the towel on the bird's leg, 'n' I don't stop to think.
"'I blistered him,' I says.
"'You--what?' says the colonel. I'd have give up the roll quick, sooner'n
spit it out again, but I'm up against it.
"'I blisters him', I says.
"The colonel's face gets red. His eyes bung out 'n' he turns 'round 'n'
starts to cough 'n' make noises. The rest of them judges does the same.
They holds on to each other 'n' does it. I know they're givin' me the
laugh fur that fierce break I makes.
"'You're outclassed, kid!' I says to myself. 'They'll tie a can to you, sure.
The gate fur yours!'
"Just then Colonel King turns round, 'n' I see I can't look at him no
more. I looks at my hat, waitin' fur him to say I'm ruled off. I've got a
lump in my throat, 'n' I think it's a bunch of bright conversation stuck
there. But just then a chunk of water rolls out of my eye, 'n' hits my
hat--pow! It looks bigger'n Lake Erie, 'n' 'fore I kin jerk the hat
away--pow!--comes another one. I knows the colonel sees 'em, 'n' I
hopes I croak.
"'Ahem--', he says.
"'Now I get mine!' I says to myself.
"'Mr. Jones,' says the colonel, 'n' his voice is kind-a cheerful. 'The
judges will accept your explanation. You may go if you wish.'"
Just as I'm goin' down the steps the colonel stops me.
"'I have a piece of advice for you, Mr. Jones,' he says. His voice ain't
cheerful neither. It goes right into my gizzard. I turns and looks at him.
'Keep that horse blistered from now on!' says the colonel.
"Some ginnies is in the weighin'-room under the stand, 'n' hears it all.

That's how I gets my name."

TWO RINGERS
"Hello, ole Four Eyes!" was the semi-affectionate greeting of Blister
Jones. "I ain't seed you lately."
I had found him in the blacksmith shop at Latonia, lazily observing the
smith's efforts to unite Fan Tan and a set of new-made, blue-black
racing-plates. I explained how a city editor had bowed my shoulders
with the labors of Hercules during the last week, and began to acquire
knowledge of the uncertainties connected with shoeing a young
thoroughbred.
A colored stable-boy stood at Fan Tan's wicked-looking head and
addressed in varied tone and temper a pair of flattened ears.
"Whoa! Baby-doll! Dat's ma honey--dat's ma petty chile-- . . . Whoa!
Yuh no-'coun' houn', yuh!" The first of the speech had been delivered
soothingly, as the smith succeeded in getting a reluctant hind leg into
his lap; the last was snorted out as the leg straightened suddenly and
catapulted him into a corner of the shop, where he sat down heavily