Blister Jones | Page 3

head. His swipe ain't goin' to let go of him, but Cal says: 'Turn him loose, boy!' 'N' I'm on my way with the bird.
"That's the first one I ever owns. Jameson loans me a stall fur him. That night a ginnie comes over from Cal's barn with two bags of oats in a wheelbarrow.
"A newspaper guy finds out about the deal, 'n' writes it up so everybody is hep to me playin' owner. One day I see the starter point me out to Colonel King, who's the main squeeze in the judge's stand, 'n' they both laugh.
"I've got all winter before we has to ship, 'n' believe me I sweat some over this bird. I done everythin' to that tendon, except make a new one. In a month I has it in such shape he don't limp, 'n' I begins to stick mile gallops 'n' short breezers into him. He has to wear a stiff bandage on the dinky leg, 'n' I puts one on the left-fore, too--it looks better.
"It ain't so long till I has this bird cherry ripe. He'll take a-holt awful strong right at the end of a stiff mile. One day I turns him loose, fur three-eighths, 'n' he runs it so fast he makes me dizzy.
"I know he's good, but I wants to know how good, before I pays entrance on him. I don't want the clockers to get wise to him, neither!
"Joe Nickel's the star jock that year. I've seen many a good boy on a hoss, but I think Joe's the best judge of pace I ever see. One day he's comin' from the weighin'-room, still in his silks. His valet's with him carryin' the saddle. I steps up 'n' says:
"'Kin I see you private a minute, Joe?'
"'Sure thing, kid,' he says. 'N' the valet skidoos.
"'Joe,' I says, 'I've got a bird that's right. I don't know just how good he is, but he's awful good. I want to get wise to him before I crowds my dough on to the 'Sociation. Will you give him a work?'
"It takes an awful nerve to ask a jock like Nickel to work a hoss out, but he's the only one can judge pace good enough to put me wise, 'n' I'm desperate.
"'It's that Davis cripple, ain't it?' he asks.
"'That's him,' I says.
"He studies a minute, lookin' steady at me.
"'I'm your huckleberry,' he says at last. 'When do you want me?'
"'Just as she gets light to-morrow mawnin',' I says quick, fur I hasn't believed he'd come through, 'n' I wants to stick the gaff into him 'fore he changes his mind.
"He give a sigh. I knowed he was no early riser.
"'All right,' he says. 'Where'll you be?'
"'At the half-mile post,' I says. 'I'll have him warmed up fur you.'
"'All right,' he says again--'n' that night I don't sleep none.
"When it begins to get a little gray next mawnin' I takes the bird out 'n' gallops him a slow mile with a stiff breezer at the end. But durin' the night I gives up thinkin' Joe'll be there, 'n' I nearly falls off when I comes past the half-mile post, 'n' he's standin' by the fence in a classy overcoat 'n' kid gloves.
"He takes off his overcoat, 'n' comes up when I gets down,'n' gives a look at the saddle.
"'I can't ride nothin' on that thing,' he says. 'Slip over to the jocks' room 'n' get mine. It's on number three peg--here's the key.'
"It's gettin' light fast 'n' I'm afraid of the clockers.
"'The sharp-shooters'll be out in a minute,' I says.
"'I can't help it,' says Joe. 'I wouldn't ride a bull on that saddle!'
"I see there's no use to argue, so I beats it across the center-field, cops the saddle 'n' comes back. I run all the way, but it's gettin' awful light.
"'Send him a mile in forty-five 'n' see what he's got left,' I says, as I throws Joe up.
"'Right in the notch--if he's got the step,' he says.
"I click Jameson's clock on them, as they went away--Joe whisperin' in the bird's ear. The back-stretch was the stretch, startin' from the half. I seen the bird's mouth wide open as they come home, 'n' Joe has double wraps on him. 'He won't beat fifty under that pull!' I says to myself. But when I stops the clock at the finish it was at forty-four-'n'-three-quarters. Joe ain't got a clock to go by neither--that's judgin' pace!--take it from me!
"'He's diseased with speed,' says Joe, when he gets down. 'He can do thirty-eight sure--just look at my hands!'
"I does a dance a-bowin' to the bird, 'n' Joe stands there laughin' at me, squeezin' the blood back into his mitts.
"We leads the hoss to the gate, 'n' there's a booky's clocker named Izzy Goldberg.
"'You an exercise-boy now?' he