Blister Jones | Page 7

among some discarded horseshoes.
The smith arose, sweat and curses dripping from him.
"Chris!" said Blister, "it's a shame the way you treat that pore filly. She
comes into yer dirty joint like a little lady, fur to get a new pair of shoes,
'n' you grabs her by the leg 'n' then cusses her when she won't stand fur
it."
Part of the curses were now directed at Blister.
"Come on, Four Eyes," he said. "This ain't no place fur a minister's
son."
"I'd like to stay and see the shoeing!" I protested, as he rose to go.

"What shoeing?" he asked incredulously. "You ain't meanin' a big
strong guy like Chris manhandlin' a pore little filly? Come awn--I can't
stand to see him abusin' her no more."
We wandered down to the big brown oval, and Blister, perching
himself on the top rail of the fence, took out his stop-watch, although
there were no horses on the track.
"What are you going to do with that?" I asked.
"Got to do it," he grinned. "If I was to set on a track fence without ma
clock in my mitt, I'd get so nur-r-vous! Purty soon I'd be as fidgity as
that filly back there. Feelin' this ole click-click kind-a soothes my
fevered brow."
In a silence that followed I watched a whipped-cream cloud adrift on
the deepest of deep blue skies.
"Hi, hum!" said Blister presently, and extending his arms in a pretense
of stretching, he shoved me off the fence. "You're welcome," he said to
my protests, and added: "There's a nice matched pair."
A boy, leading a horse, was emerging from the mouth of a stall.
The contrast between them was startling--never had I seen a horse with
so much elegant apparel; rarely had I seen a boy with so little. The boy,
followed by the horse, began to walk a slow circle not far from where
we sat. Suddenly the boy addressed Blister.
"Say, loan me the makin's, will you, pal?" he drawled.
From his hip pocket Blister produced some tobacco in a stained muslin
bag and a wad of crumpled cigarette papers. These he tossed toward the
boy.
"Yours trooly," muttered that worthy, as he picked up the "makin's".
"Heard the news about Hicky Rogers?" he asked, while he rolled a
cigarette.

"Nothin', except he's a crooked little snipe," Blister answered.
"Huh! that ain't news," said the boy. "They've ruled him off--that's what
I mean."
"That don't surprise me none," Blister stated. "He's been gettin' too
smart around here fur quite a while. It'll be a good riddance."
"Were you ever ruled off the track?" I asked Blister, as the boy,
exhaling clouds of cigarette smoke, returned to the slow walking of his
horse. He studied in silence a moment.
"Yep--once," he replied. "I got mine at New Awlins fur ringin' a hoss.
That little ole town has got my goat."
"When was this?" I asked.'
"The year I first starts conditionin' hosses," he answered.
I had noticed that dates totally eluded Blister. A past occurrence as far
as its relation to time was concerned, he always established by a
contemporary event of the turf. Pressed as to when a thing had taken
place he would say, "The year Salvation cops all the colt stakes," or
"The fall Whisk-broom wins the Brooklyn Handicap." This had
interested me and I now tried to get something more definite from him.
He answered my questions vaguely.
"Say, if you're lookin' fur that kind of info," he said at last, "get the
almanac or the byciclopedia. These year things slide by so easy I don't
get a good pike at one, 'fore another is not more'n a len'th back, 'n'
comin' fast."
I saw it was useless.
"Well, never mind just when it happened," I said. "Tell me about it."
"All right," said Blister. "Like I've just said it happens one winter at
New Awlins, the year after I starts conditionin' hosses.

"Things break bad fur me that winter. Whenever a piker can't win a bet
he comes 'round, slaps me on the wrist, 'n' separates me from some of
my kale. I'm so easy I squeezes my roll if I meets a child on the street.
The cops had ought to patrol me, 'cause larceny'll sure be committed
every time a live guy speaks to me.
"I've only got three dogs in my string. One of 'em's a mornin'-glory.
He'll bust away as if he's out to make Salvator look like a truck-hoss,
but he'll lay down 'n' holler fur some one to come 'n' carry him when he
hits the stretch. One's a hop-head 'n' I has to shoot enough dope into
him to make him think he's Napoleon Bonyparte 'fore he'll switch a fly
off hisself. Then when