CLASS
"What do you like in the handicap?" I asked, looking up from the form sheet.
Blister reached for the paper.
"Indigo's the class," he said, after a glance at the entries. "If they run to form, he'll cop."
"There you go again—with your class!" I exclaimed. "You're always talking about class. What does class mean?"
"Long as you've been hangin' 'round the track 'n' not know what class means!" Blister looked at me pityingly. "There's no class to that," he added, with a grin.
"Seriously now," I urged. "Explain it to me. Class, as you call it, is beaten right along. Just the other day you said Exponent was the class and should have won, but he didn't."
"He has the most left at that," said Blister. "He wins in three more jumps. You can't beat class. It'll come back fur more."
"Molly S. beat him," I insisted.
"Yep, she beat him that one race," Blister admitted. "But how does she beat him? Do you notice the boy gets her away wingin' 'n' keeps her there all the trip?… Why? Because he knows she can't come from behind 'n' win. If the old hoss gets to her any place in the stretch she lays down to him sure. She ain't got the class 'n' he has. She can win a race now 'n' then when things break right fur her, but the Exponent hoss'll win anyway—on three legs if he has to. He's got the class."
"How can you get horses with class?" I inquired. "By breeding?"
"If you want it you lay down big coin fur it," Blister answered. "It follows blood lines some, but not all the time. I've seed awful dogs bred clear to the clouds. Then again it'll show in a weanlin'. I've seed sucklin' colts with class stickin' out all over 'em. Kids has it, too. It shows real young sometimes."
"How can a child show anything like that?" I remonstrated. "He has no opportunity. Class, as I understand it, is deep-seated—part of the very fiber. It takes a big situation to bring it out. Where did you ever see a child display this quality?"
"I've seed it many a time in little dirty-faced swipes," Blister stated. "I've seed exercise-boys so full of class they put the silks on 'em before they can bridle a hoss, 'n' they bawl like you've took away their apple when they lose their first race. You've heard of Hamilton?"
"I have been told he is the best sire in America," I replied, wondering where this question led.
"I won't say that," said Blister. "There's a lot of good hosses at stud in this land-of-the-free-when-you-pay-fur-it, but he's up there with the best of 'em. Did you know I owns him once myself?"
"Not the great Hamilton?" I protested.
"Yep, the great all-the-time, anyhow-'n'-any-place Hamilton," Blister assured me. "'N' speakin' of class in kids 'n' colts, lemme tell you about it." He reached for his "makin's" and I waited while he rolled a cigarette, this process being a necessary prelude to a journey into his past.
"The year Seattle Sam goes down 'n' out," the words came in a cloud of cigarette smoke, "I'm at Saratoga. This Seattle is one of the big plungers, his nod's good with the bookies fur anything he wants to lay, 'n' he sure bets 'em to the sky. He owns a grand string of hosses, 'n' when one of 'em's out to win, believe me, he carries the coin!"
"All the same they get him at last 'n' there ain't nothin' else talked about fur a couple of days when the word goes 'round that he's cleaned. The bunch acts like somebody's dead. They whisper when they tell it. It's got 'em dazed.
"In them days there's a little squirt called Micky that hangs around the track. He ain't got a regular job; he just picks up odd mounts on a work-out now 'n' then. He don't weigh eighty pounds, but he's fresher'n a bucket of paint. His right name's Vincent Mulligan, 'n' his mother's a widow woman. I learns that 'cause the old lady sends a truant officer out to the track after him one day, 'n' the cop puts me wise after Micky has clumb through a stall window, 'n' give him the slip.
"'Why, you big truck hoss,' says Micky to the bull as he skidoos through the window, 'you couldn't catch a cold at the north pole in yer dirty undershirt!'
"'Why don't you go to school like you'd ought, Vincent?' I says to Micky, when he shows up the next day.
"'Aw, you go to hell!' says Micky. 'Say, are you ever goin' to let me work one of yer dogs out in place of that smoke?' he says, pointin' at Snowball, my exercise-boy.
"'Who you callin' a smoke?' says Snowball, startin' fur Micky. 'I'll slap the ugly I'ish mouth off you!'
"Micky picks up a pitchfork.
"'Go awn, you black boob!' he says. 'If I reaches fer yer gizzard with this tickler, I gets it!'
"Snowball backs up. I grabs the fork from the little shrimp.
"'Now, you beat it!' I says to him.
"'Aw, you go to hell!' says Micky. He lays down on a bail of straw 'n' pulls his hat over his face. 'If any guy bothers me while I'm gettin' my rest,' he says, 'call a hearse. Don't wake me up till some guy wants a hoss worked out.'
"One day I goes to lay a piker's bet in Ike Rosenberg's book.
"'All across on Tantrum,' I says to Ike.
"'Hello, Blister,' says Ike, when he goes to hand me the ticket. 'I like that one myself. Go over 'n' lay me a hundred 'n' fifty the same way,—here's the change.'
"When I bring Ike his ticket he tells me to wait a minute, 'n' pretty soon he puts a sheet-writer on the block 'n' steps down.
"'Come over here,' he says, 'n' I trails him out of the bettin' shed. 'I've took a two-year-old for a thousand dollar marker of Seattle's,' says Ike, swingin' 'round on me. 'You want him?'
"'To train, you mean?' I says, 'Is that it?'
"'Sure,' says Ike. 'You can have him on shares if you want.'
"'Tell me about him,' I says.
"'Well,' says Ike, 'he's a big little hoss made good all over. He ain't never started yet, but he's been propped for two months. He's by Edgemont. First dam, Cora, by Musketeer. Second dam, Débutante, by Peddler. Third dam, Daisy Dean, by Salvation. Fourth dam, Iole, by Messenger. He's registered as Hamilton, 'n' that's all I know.'
"'That's sure some breedin',' I says. 'But I never takes a colt on shares. I'll handle him fur you as careful as I know how 'n' it'll cost you fifty a month. That's the best I can do.'
"'I'll send him over this evenin',' says Ike. 'Let me know what you think of him after he works out for you.'
"I like this Hamilton colt the minute I gets my lamps on him. He ain't over fifteen hands, but he's all hoss. He'll weigh right at nine hundred, 'n' that's quite a chunk of a two-year-old. He's got a fine little head on him 'n' his eye has the right look. A good game hoss'll look at you like a eagle. I don't want nothin' to do with a sheep-eyed pup. This colt has a eye like a game cock.
"Peewee Simpson is at my stalls when they brings the colt over, 'n' after we've sized him up I asks Peewee what he thinks of the little rooster.
"'Him?' says Peewee. 'He's a bear-cat. I'll bet he entertains you frequent 'n' at short notice. I don't figger him related to Mary's lamb, not any. You better keep your eye on little Hamilton. Hammy's likely to be a naughty boy any time.'
"Peewee's got the correct hunch—the first time Snowball takes him out Hamilton runs off 'n' the boy don't get him stopped till he romps five miles.
"'Can't you stop him sooner'n that?' I says to Snowball when he's back.
"Micky's at the stalls that mawnin', 'n' he butts in, as usual.
"'Stop him!' he says. 'That black boob couldn't stop a hoss in a box stall. Lemme me have him next work-out!'
"'I'll let you have a slap on the ear,' I says.
"'Aw, you go to hell!' says Micky.
"Next work-out day Hamilton pulls off the same stunt. He's feelin' extra good that mawnin', I guess, 'cause he makes a nine mile trip of it. Micky stands there with me, watchin' the colt go round 'n' round the track.
"'Why don't you can that choc'lit drop,' he says, ''n' put a white man up?'
"'Meanin' you?' I says. 'You'd holler fur your milk bottle before he goes a eighth with you.'
"'Aw, you go to hell!' says Micky.
"I borrows a curb 'n' chain from Eddy Murphy—he's been usin' it on ole Dandelion. It's fierce—you can bust a hoss's jaw with it. I puts it on Hamilton next work-out.
"'I guess that'll hold little Hammy,' I says, when Snowball's up. But it don't. The colt ain't any more'n felt the curb when he bolts into the fence 'n' chucks Snowball off. I starts to catch the hoss, but Micky gets to him first 'n' grabs him.
"'Lemme give him a whirl,' he says. 'Come on—be a sport fur a change!'
"Snowball rolls away from the colt 'n' picks hisself up.
"'He is shoh welcome to him,' he says. 'I got no moh use foh him.'
"I studies a minute, lookin' at Micky. He don't come much above Hamilton's knee. He's lookin' at me like a pup beggin' fur a bone.
"'Go to it, you ornery little shrimp!' I says at last. 'If a worse pair ever gets together I've never seed it!'
"Micky gives a yelp like a terrier.
"'Take off this bit 'n' put a straight bar on him,' he says.
"'Why, you couldn't hold one of his ears with a bar bit,' I says.
"'Who's ridin' this hoss?' says Micky. 'Go awn, get the bit!'
"'Get him what he wants,' I says to Snowball.
"We leads the colt on to the track, when the bits is changed, 'n' just as I throws Micky up I see he's got a bat.
"'What you goin' to do with that?' I says. 'You need a parachute, not a whip!'
"'I always ride 'em with a bat. Turn him loose,' says Micky.
"Well, it's the same thing over again, the colt runs off. All Micky does is to keep him in the track. I see he ain't pullin' a pound. They've gone about six mile 'n' Hamilton begins to slow a little. Just then Micky lights into him with the bat.
"'Look at dat!' says Snowball. 'He's los' his min'.'
"'No, he ain't!' I says. 'He's there forty ways!' I've just begun to tumble the kid's wise as owls. 'Oh, you Micky!' I hollers. 'Go to it, you white boy!'
"I hate to tell you how far that kid works the hoss. He keeps handin' him the bat every other jump. It gets so I can run as fast as they're movin' 'n' Hamilton's just prayin' fur help. I'm afraid he'll jim the colt fur good, so I yells at Micky to cut it out, when he comes by.
"'Come down off of that, you squirt!' I says. 'Do you want to kill the colt?'
"'Aw, you go to hell!' he says, 'n' 'round they go again. When Hamilton ain't got more'n a good stagger left, Micky rides him through the gate to the stall.
"'Now, pony,' he says to Hamilton, 'don't start nothin' you can't finish.'
"The trip kills a ordinary hoss, but they ain't nothin' ordinary about this Hamilton. I learns that then. We cools him out good 'n' in three days he's kickin' the roof off the stall.
"Come work-out day Micky goes up on Hamilton. Say, the colt eats out of his hand. Micky's got him buffaloed right. He gallops Hamilton a nice mile 'n' pulls up at the gate.
"'What do you want him to do now? Stand on his head?' he says. 'Times is dull.'
"'Shoot him three furlongs,' I says.
"'Shoot is the word,' says Micky.
"Hamilton romps the three furlongs in nothin' flat—I'm tickled sick.
"'He's a bear!' I says to Micky at the stalls. ''N' as fur you—you're on the pay-roll.'
"'Why, you're a live one, ain't you?' says Micky. 'Wait till I go chase the Smoke!' The next thing I see is Snowball goin' down the line like a quarter hoss, 'n' Micky's proddin' at him with a pitchfork.
"'He won't be back,' says Micky, when he's puttin' up the fork.
"'Now, look-a here,' I says, 'you got to cut this rough stuff, if you works fur me.'
"'Aw, you go to hell!' says Micky to me.
"Right then I gets him by the collar, 'n' takes a bat from the rack. I works on him till the bat's wore out 'n' then reaches fur another. Micky ain't opened his face. I wears that one out 'n' grabs another. Micky looks up at the rack—there's four more bats left.
"'Nix on number three!' he yells. 'I'm listenin' to you!'
"'All right,' I says, hangin' up the bat. 'Now, listen good. Cut out this rough stuff—you got me?'
"'I got you,' says Micky.
"I tells Ike he's got a good colt, but only one boy can ride him. Ike comes over to the stalls with me to see the boy 'n' Hamilton.
"'Not that kid?' he says, when he takes a slant at Micky. 'A hobby-hoss lets him out.'
"Micky goes straight up.
"'Why, you fat-headed Kike!' he says. 'The only thing you can tell me about a hoss is how much the nails cost to hold his shoes on.'
"Ike turns to me.
"'Don't never let that boy throw a leg over a hoss of mine again,' he says. 'Enter this colt in the two-year-old scramble Friday. I'll get Whitman to ride. I guess he'll hold him.'
"'Now, look at that!' I says to Micky when Ike's gone. 'You will shoot off your face, won't you? Ain't you never goin' to learn to keep that loud trap of yours closed?'
"'Aw, you go—' Micky stops there.
"I takes a step towards the whip rack.
"'Come on—' I says, 'let's hear from you!'
"'—to hell with the big Kike!' says Micky.
"'Does that let me in?' I says.
"Micky studies a minute lookin' at me 'n' the bats in the rack.
"'Naw—just the Kike,' he says at last.
"When Whitman's up on Hamilton, before they goes to the post, I tries to put him wise.
"'You're on a bad actor, Whitty,' I says. 'If you ain't on your toes, he runs off with you sure.' This Whitman's a star, 'n' nobody knows it better'n him.
"'What do you hire a jock fur?' he says. 'Why don't you train 'n' ride both?'
"'All right,' I says. 'I'm tellin' you now!'
"'If this hoss is ready,' says Whitman, 'you've earned your money—don't work overtime.'
"I goes through the paddock 'n' out on the lawn. Before I'm there I hears the crowd yellin'. When I can see the track, there's the field at the post all but Hamilton. He 'n' Whitty has made a race all to theirselves. It turns out to be a six mile ramble with only one entry.
"I goes to the stand 'n' scratches Hamilton while he's still runnin'. The field waits at the post till they get a clear track.
"'I didn't know this was a distance race,' I says to Whitty when he gets down. Whitty's sore as a crab, the bunch'll mention it to him the rest of the season.
"'You don't want a jock on this thing,' he says. 'A engineer is what he needs.'
"'Sell him,' is the first words Ike says to me when I sees him.
"'Sell him?' I says. 'You must be drunk! Why, he don't bring a ten case note. Everybody's hep he's a bolter. Now listen! This is a real good colt, 'n' I know it; but the bunch don't. That boy of mine can ride him. If you gives the colt another chance with my boy up, he shows 'em somethin'. Then you can get a price fur him.'
"'Do what you like with him,' says Ike. 'But I don't pay out another simoleon on him! I'm through right now!'
"'Give me half what he wins his next out 'n' I'll take a chance with him,' I says.
"'You're on,' says Ike. 'But you pay the entrance.'
"'Surest thing you know,' I says, 'n' goes over to the stalls.
"In two weeks there's to be a handicap fur two-year-olds. It's worth three thousand to the winner. It's the best baby race at the meetin'. Hamilton'll come in awful light 'n' he'll get five pounds apprentice allowance fur Micky; but it'll put a big crimp in my roll to pay the entrance. I studies over it some 'n' I gets cold feet. It takes three hundred bones to sit in. I've about decided it's too rich fur my blood, when next work-out day comes 'n' Hamilton works four furlongs, with Micky up, like a cyclone. That gets my circulation goin' 'n' I takes a shot at it.
"'Who's burning this up on the ten mile wonder?' says the sec. to me, when I'm payin' the entrance. 'The work seems a little coarse for my old friend Ike.'
"'I'm Smiling Faces this load of poles,' I says.
"'Why, Blister,' says the sec. 'I never thought it of you! But we're much obliged to you just the same.'
"There's eight starters in the handicap besides Hamilton. One of 'em's a big clumsy colt named Hellespont. The bunch calls him the Elephant, 'n' he's sour as lemons. I see his eyes a-rollin' in the paddock, 'n' I know he's hopped. Just as the parade starts he begins to cut the mustard. He rears 'n' tries to come down all spraddled out on the colt ahead of him in the line, but the jock runs him into a stall 'n' they take hold of him till the rest is out on the track.
"Micky ain't had no experience at the post. I've borrowed a pair of glasses 'n' I'm watchin' the get-a-way pretty anxious. Hamilton's actin' fine, but the Elephant is holdin' up the start. All of a sudden he rears clear up 'n' comes down across Hamilton. The colt does a flop 'n' I see the Elephant rear 'n' stamp him a couple a times before the assistant drives him off with the bull whip."
[Illustration: "I see the Elefant stamp him.">[
"'Good-by, three hundred!' I says to myself, I can't see good fur the dust, but they pulls Micky out from under the colt, 'n' when I gets another slant, Hamilton's on his feet 'n' the starter's talkin' at Micky. I can see Micky shakin' his head. It ain't long till they puts him up again.
"'That's the good game kid!' I says out loud. 'Oh, you 'Micky boy!' also out loud.
"They get off to a nice start. When they hit the stretch I throws my hat away. Hamilton's in front two lengths. A eighth from home I see there's somethin' wrong with Micky. He's got his bat 'n' lines in his left mitt. His right hook is kind-a floppin' at his side, but Hamilton's runnin' true 'n' strong. The colt looks awful good to the sixteenth 'n' then his gait goes clear to the bad. I see he's all shot to pieces behind, 'n' he's stoppin' fast. I'm standin' at the inner rail ten len'ths from the wire, 'n' the Elephant colt gets to Hamilton right in front of me.
"'I gotcha, jock!' yells the boy on the Elephant.
"'They don't pay off here,' says Micky, 'n' sticks the lines in his face. Then he goes to the bat with his south hook 'n' Hamilton lays back his ears 'n' runs true again.… He out-games the Elephant a nod at the wire 'n' I'm twelve hundred to the clear.
"When I gets to 'em, Micky's standin' in the track leanin' against Hamilton. The colt's shakin' all over 'n' his hind feet's in a big pool of blood. I gives a' look 'n' the left rear tendon is tore off from hock to fetlock.
"'Good God, look at that!' I says to Micky.
"Micky turns 'n' looks.
"'Aw, pony …' he says, 'n' busts out cryin'. He leans up against the colt again 'n' he's shakin' as bad as Hamilton.
"Just then the boy gets down from the Elephant.
"'I'd a beat that dog in another jump,' he says to Micky.
"'You?' says Micky. 'I'm goin' to kill you!' He starts fur the boy, but he turns kind-a greeny white 'n' does a flop on the track.
"When I goes to pick him up I see a bone comin' through the flesh just above the wrist on his right hook.
"We puts him in a blanket 'n' the swipes start to carry him off.
"'What's the matter with the kid?' says Ike comin' up.
"'Arm broke, I guess,' I says."
"Ike sees the blood 'n' walks behind Hamilton.
"'I wish it was his neck,' he says, pointin' at the tendon. 'That's what you get fur puttin' a pin-headed apprentice on a good hoss! Get him so he can hobble, 'n' sell him to a livery if you can. If not, have him shot.'
"Hamilton's standin' there a-shakin'. His eyes has the look you always sees in a hoss just after he's ruined.
"'What'll you take fur him?' I says to Ike.
"'Take fur him?' he says. 'Whatever he'll bring. I ain't out nothin' on him. I splits three thousand with you to the race.'
"'You owe me a hundred 'n' thirty fur trainin',' I says. 'I calls it off 'n' keeps the hoss.'
"'You've bought him,' says Ike, 'n' goes back to the bettin' shed.
"They take Micky to the hospital. The doc says his arm's broke 'n' he's hurt inside. He comes to before they puts him in the ambulance.
"'Why didn't you let another boy ride?' says the assistant starter, who's helpin' the doc.
"'Ride hell!' says Micky. 'He runs off with them other boobs.'
"Me 'n' Peewee Simpson gets Hamilton to the stall. It takes him just one hour to do that hundred yards, but I've got a tight bandage above the hock 'n' he don't bleed so bad.
"'Can you get him so he can walk?' I says to the vet. when he's looked at the colt.
"'Yes,' he says; 'but that'll be about all for him. I advise you to have him destroyed. What hoss is this?'
"'Hamilton,' I says. 'He just wins the colt race.'
"'So?' he says. 'I didn't see it. When did this happen?'
"'At the post,' I says. 'Another colt jumped on him.'
"'At the post?' he says. 'I thought you said he won?'
"'He did,' I says.
"'On that?' he says, pointin' to the leg. 'What you tryin' to do, kid me?'
"'I'm tellin' it to you just as she happens,' I says. 'It don't matter a damn to me whether you believe it or not!'
"'Why, you ain't kiddin', are you?' he says. 'Wait a minute—'
"He goes outside 'n' I see him talkin' to several.
"'It's straight,' he says, when he comes back. 'But it ain't possible!'
"'Who owns this colt?' he says, after he's looked at the leg some more.
"'I do,' I says. 'I just give a hundred 'n' thirty fur him.'
"'What did you ever buy him for?' he says.
"I studies a minute, a-lookin' at Hamilton.
"'I've got softenin' of the brain, I guess,' I says.
"'He's a nice made thing,' says the vet. 'How's he bred?'
"I tells him, 'n' he looks at the leg some more, 'n' then walks 'round the colt a couple a times.
"'I tell you what I'll do,' he says after while. 'I'll take him off your hands at just what you paid. I'm givin' it to you straight—this hoss wont never do more than walk. But he's bred out a sight 'n' I like his looks. There's a chance somebody could use him in the stud. I'm willin' to get him in some sort-a shape 'n' see if I can't make a piece of money on him. What do you say?"
"'Well,' I says, 'you're fixed better to get him in shape'n me. I just wanted to give the little hoss a show. If you'll give it to him, he's yours.'
"'Here's your money,' says the vet. 'I'll send my wagon for him to-morrow. Let me have a lantern till I get this leg so it won't hurt him so bad to-night.'
"The next day every paper I picks up has a great big write-up in it about Micky 'n' the colt. Until the wagon comes fur him there's a regular procession to the stall to look at Hamilton, 'n' when I goes to the hospital that night you can't see Micky fur flowers around his bed.
"'Hell!' says Micky. 'Do they think I'm a stiff?'
"'Sh-h-h!' says the sister that's nursin' him.
"I don't see Hamilton fur a month. One day I goes over to the big Eastern sale at New York, just to hear ole Pappy Danforth sell 'em. Pappy's stood on a block all his life. He knows every hoss-man in the country. When he tells you about a hoss, it's right; 'n' everybody takes his tip. He just about sells 'em where they ought to go.
"There's a fierce crowd at the sale 'n' some grand stuff goes under the hammer. Pappy kids the crowd along 'n' sells 'em so fast it makes you dizzy. They don't more'n lead a hoss out till he's gone.
"All of a sudden Pappy climbs clear up on the desk in front of him 'n' stands there a minute, pushin' back his long white hair.
"'Na-ow, boys!' he says. 'I'm goin' to sell you a three-legged hoss! An'—listen to the ole man—he's wuth more'n any four-legged hoss, livin' or dead!'
"I rubbers hard to get a look at a hoss Pappy boosts like that, 'n' I nearly croaks when they lead Hamilton into the ring. The colt's a dink, right. He's stiff as a poker behind, but he's still got that game-cock look to his eye.
"'Na-ow, boys!' sings out Pappy, 'there's the biggest little hoss ever you saw! Don't look at him—any of you fellahs that wants a yellah dawg to win a cheap race with! He ain't in that class. Step forwahd, you breeders, an' grasp a golden opportunity! Send the best brood mares you've got to this little hoss … he's a giant! You hear me—a giant! Ed Tumble, I'm talkin' to you! I'm talkin' to you, Bill Masters—an' Harry Scott there … an' Judge Dillon … an' all you big breeders! You've read what this little hoss done in the newspapers. You can see his breedin' in your catalogues. You can look him over as he stands there! But best of all—listen to the old man! when he tells you he never held a hammer over a better one in fifty years. Na-ow, boys! I'm goin' to sell him for the high dollah, an' the man who gets him at any price … you hear me—at any price!… is goin' to have the laugh on the rest of you fellahs! Aw-l-l right—what do I hear?'
"'Five hundred!' says some guy.
"'Why, Frank, five hundred won't buy a hair out of his tail … what do I hear?' says Pappy.
"'Two thousand!' yells somebody.
"'Na-ow listen, Tom, if you want the little hoss, cut out this triflin' an' bid for him,' says Pappy. 'What do I hear?'
"'Five thousand!' some guy hollers.
"'That's just a nice little start … what do I hear?' says Pappy, 'n' I goes into a trance.
"I don't come to till I hears Pappy sing out:
"'So-o-ld to you for sixteen thousand dollahs, Mr. Humphrey, an' you never bought a cheaper one!'
"It's a wonder I ain't run over gettin' to the depot. I don't know where I'm at. I just keeps sayin' 'sixteen thousand—sixteen thousand—' over 'n' over to myself. I beats it out to the hospital when I gets back, to tell Micky. They're goin' to let him out in a day or so 'n' Micky's settin' up in a chair with wheels to it.
"'Give a guess what Hamilton brings in the Big Eastern,' I says to him.
"'I dunno,' says he. 'How much?'
"'Sixteen thousand bucks!' I says. 'How does that lay on your stummick?'
"'Hell!' says Micky. 'That ain't nothin'—look-a-here!'
"He shoves a paper at me he's been holdin' in his mitt. It's a ridin' contract fur two years with the Ogden stable at ten thousand a year.
"So you see, just like I tells you," Blister wound up, "they lay down real money fur class."
"The man who bought the horse," I said, "certainly got what he paid for—everybody knows now that Hamilton has class. But how about the boy?"
"Did you ever see Vincent ride?" Blister looked at me inquiringly.
"I saw him ride once in the English Derby," I replied. "Why?"
"Well," said Blister, "his mother lives in New York in a brownstone house he bought her, with two Swede girls to do as much work as she'll let 'em. When he comes home, she calls him 'Micky.' Is there class to him?"
"Yes," I said, "there's class to him."