[Illustration: "Très Jolie!" he shrieked.]
I had seen him stand and lose his all without a sign of feeling. But now he raved and cursed and prayed and plead with his "Girlie!"—his "Baby Doll!", and with the last atom of her strength his sweetheart answered the call.
She reached, heaven alone knows how, the flank of the flying black, and inch by inch she crept along that flank until they struggled head to head.
"Oh, you black dog!" howled Blister, wild triumph in his voice. "You've got to beat a race hoss now!"
As though he heard, the black horse flattened to his work. Almost to the end he held her there, eye meeting eye. The task was just beyond him. Even as they shot under the wire, he faltered. But it was very close, and the shrieking hysterical grand-stand grew still and waited.
I glanced at Blister. He was leaning forward, almost crouching, his face ashen, his eyes on the number board.
Then slowly the numbers swung into view, and "1, 3, 7," I read.
There was a roar like the falling of ten thousand forest trees. These words flashed through my mind. "We'll know about her when she goes the route, carryin' weight against class." … Yes, we knew about her—now!
I saw Mrs. Dillon's lips move at Uncle Jake's ear. He raised his sightless eyes to the sky, his head nodding. It was as though he visioned paradise and found it good indeed.
I saw Blister's face turn from gray to red, from red to purple. The tenseness went out of his body, and suddenly he was gone, fighting his way through the crowd toward the steps.
I saw Judge Dillon's big arm gather in his trembling wife, and he held her close while the heavens rocked.
These things I saw through a blur, and then I felt Miss Goodloe sway at my side. She clutched at the railing, missed it and sank slowly into her seat. I but glimpsed a white face in which the eyes had changed from blue to violet, when it was covered by two slender gloved hands.
"Are you ill?" I called, as I bent above her.
She shook her head.
"It was too much," I barely heard.
I stood bewildered, and then my stupid mind cast out a soulless image that it held and fixed the true one there.
"I rarely make this kind of a fool of myself," she said at last.
"That I can quite believe," I replied, smiling down at her. She returned the smile with one that held a fine good comradeship, and we seemed to have known each other long.…
A crowd had packed themselves before the stall. As we reached it Blister appeared in the doorway.
"Get back! Get back!" he ordered, and pointing to the panting mare: "Don't you think she's earned a right to breath?"
The crowd fell away, except one rather shabby little old man.
"No one living," said he, "appreciates what she has done moh than myself, suh, but I desiah to lay ma hand on a real race mayah once moh befoh I die!"
Blister's face softened.
"Come on in, Mr. Sanford," he invited. "Why you win the derby once, didn't you?"
"Thank you, suh. Yes, suh, many yeahs ago," said the little old man, and removing his battered hat he entered the stall, his white head bare.
Mrs. Dillon's face as she, too, entered the stall was tear-wet and alight with a great tenderness.
A boy dodged his way to where we stood. His face and the front of his blue and gold jacket were encrusted with dirt.
"You shoe-maker!" was Blister's scornful greeting.
"Honest to Gawd it wasn't my fault, Judge," the boy piped, sniffling. "Honest to Gawd it wasn't! That sour-headed bay stud of Henderson's swung his ugly butt under the mare's nose, 'n' just as I'm takin' back so the dog won't kick a leg off her, that mutt of a starter lets 'em go!"
"All right, sonny," said the judge. "You rode a nice race when you did get away."
"Much obliged, sir. I just wanted to tell you," said the boy, and he disappeared in the crowd as Judge Dillon joined those in the stall.
I stayed outside watching the group about Très Jolie, and never had my heart gone out to people more. Deeply I wished to keep them in my life… I wondered if we would ever meet again. But pshaw!—I was nothing to them. Well, I would go back to Cincinnati when they left in the morning.…
"Can't we have you for a week at Thistle Ridge?" Mrs. Dillon stood looking up at me.
"Why, that's very kind—" I stammered.
"The north pasture is a wilderness this year, the loaf of bread, the jug of wine and the bough are waiting. You can, of course, furnish your own verses."
"The picture is almost perfect," I said, and glanced at Miss Goodloe.
"Virginia, dear—" prompted Mrs. Dillon.
"As a thou—I always strive to please," drawled that blue-eyed young person. Oh, that I had been warned by her words!
Our purring flight to Louisville, when the day was done, became a triumph that mocked the dead Caesars. Of this the old negro on the front seat missed little. He was singing, softly singing. And leaning forward I listened.
"Curry a mule an' curry a hoss,
Keep down trubbul wid de stable boss!"
sang Uncle Jake.