Blister Jones | Page 2

Alberta, by Seminole."
The bay filly, I soon observed, had more than beauty--she was so obviously the outcome of a splendid and selected ancestry. Even her manners were aristocratic. She faced the barrier with quiet dignity and took no part in the whirling riot except to move disdainfully aside when it threatened to engulf her. I turned to Blister and found him gazing at the filly with a far-away look in his eyes.
"Ole Alberta was a grand mare," he said presently. "I see her get away last in the Crescent City Derby 'n' be ten len'ths back at the quarter. But she come from nowhere, collared ole Stonebrook in the stretch, looked him in the eye the last eighth 'n' outgamed him at the wire. She has a hundred 'n' thirty pounds up at that.
"Ole Alberta dies when she has this filly," he went on after a pause. "Judge Dillon, over near Lexington, owned her, 'n' Mrs. Dillon brings the filly up on the bottle. See how nice that filly stands? Handled every day since she was foaled, 'n' never had a cross word. Sugar every mawnin' from Mrs. Dillon. That's way to learn a colt somethin'."
At last the colts were formed into a disorderly line.
"Now, boys, you've got a chance--come on with 'em!" bellowed the starter. "Not too fast . . ." he cautioned. "Awl-r-r-right . . . let 'em go-o-!"
They were off like rockets as the barrier shot up, and the bay filly flashed into the lead. Her slender legs seemed to bear her as though on the breast of the wind. She did not run--she floated--yet the gap between herself and her struggling schoolmates grew ever wider.
"Oh, you Alberta!" breathed Blister. Then his tone changed. "Most of these wise Ikes talk about the sire of a colt, but I'll take a good dam all the time for mine!"
Standing on my chair, I watched the colts finish their run, the filly well in front.
"She's a wonder!" I exclaimed, resuming my seat.
"She acts like she'll deliver the goods," Blister conceded. "She's got a lot of step, but it takes more'n that to make a race hoss. We'll know about her when she goes the route, carryin' weight against class."
The colts were now being led to their quarters by stable-boys. When the boy leading the winner passed, he threw us a triumphant smile.
"I guess she's bad!" he opined.
"Some baby," Blister admitted. Then with disgust: "They've hung a fierce name on her though."
"Ain't it the truth!" agreed the boy.
"What is her name?" I asked, when the pair had gone by.
"They call her Trez Jolly," said Blister. "Now, ain't that a hell of a name? I like a name you can kind-a warble." He had pronounced the French phrase exactly as it is written, with an effort at the "J" following the sibilant.
"Très Jolie--it's French," I explained, and gave him the meaning and proper pronunciation.
"Traysyolee!" he repeated after me. "Say, I'm a rube right. Tra-aysyole-e in the stretch byano-o-se!" he intoned with gusto. "You can warble that!" he exclaimed.
"I don't think much of Blister--for beauty," I said. "Of course, that isn't your real name."
"No; I had another once," he replied evasively. "But I never hears it much. The old woman calls me 'thatdambrat,' 'n' the old man the same, only more so. I gets Blister handed to me by the bunch one winter at the New Awlin' meetin'."
"How?" I inquired.
"Wait till I get the makin's 'n' I'll tell you," he said, as he got up and entered a stall.
"One winter I'm swipin' fur Jameson," he began, when he returned with tobacco and papers. "We ships to New Awlins early that fall. We have twelve dogs--half of 'em hop-heads 'n' the other half dinks.
"In them days I ain't much bigger 'n a peanut, but I sure thinks I'm a clever guy. I figger they ain't a gazabo on the track can hand it to me.
"One mawnin' there's a bunch of us ginnies settin' on the fence at the wire, watchin' the work-outs. Some trainers 'n' owners is standin' on the track rag-chewin'.
"A bird owned by Cal Davis is finishin' a mile-'n'-a-quarter, under wraps, in scan'lous fast time. Cal is standin' at the finish with his clock in his hand lookin' real contented. All of a sudden the bird makes a stagger, goes to his knees 'n' chucks the boy over his head. His swipe runs out 'n' grabs the bird 'n' leads him in a-limpin'.
"Say! That bird's right-front tendon is bowed like a barrel stave!
"This Cal Davis is a big owner. He's got all kinds of kale--'n' he don't fool with dinks. He gives one look at the bowed tendon.
"'Anybody that'll lead this hoss off the track, gets him 'n' a month's feed,' he says.
"Before you could spit I has that bird by the