Blister Jones

by John Taintor Foote

SALVATION

At the invitation of Blister Jones I had come from the city's heat to witness the morning "work-outs". For two hours horse after horse had shot by, leaving a golden dust-cloud to hang and drift and slowly settle.

It was fairly cool under the big tree by the track fence, and the click of Blister's stop-watch, with his varied comments on what those clicks recorded, drifted out of my consciousness much as had the dust-clouds. Even the thr-rump, thr-rump, thr-rump of flying hoofs—crescendo, fortissimo, diminuendo—finally became meaningless.

"Here's one bred to suit you!" rasped a nasal voice, and I sat up, half awake, to observe a tall man lead a thorough-bred on to the track and dexterously "throw" a boy into the tiny saddle.

"Why?" Blister questioned.

"He's by Salvation," explained the tall man. "Likely-lookin' colt, ain't he? Think he favors the old hoss any?"

"'Bout the head he does," Blister answered. "He won't girt as big as the old hoss did at the same age."

"Well, if he's half as good as his daddy he's some hoss at that," the tall man stated, as he started up the track, watch in hand.

Blister followed the colt with his eyes.

"Ever hear of Salvation?" he finally asked.

"Oh, yes," I replied.

"Well, I brings out Salvation as a three-year-old, 'n' what happens is quite a bunch of chatter—want to hear it?"

"You know it," I said, dropping into Blister's vernacular.

"That's pretty good for you," he said, grinning at my slang. "Well, to begin with, I'm in Loueyville. It's in the fall, 'n' I'm just back from Sheepshead. One way 'n' another I've had a good year. I'm down on two or three live ones when the odds are right, 'n' I've grabbed off a bundle I ain't ashamed to flash in any kind of company.

"My string's been shipped South, 'n' I thinks I'll knock around Kentucky fur a couple of weeks, 'n' see if I can't pick up some hosses to train.

"One mawnin' I'm in the Gait House, lookin' fur a hossman that's stoppin' there, 'n' I see Peewee Simpson settin' in the lobby like he'd just bought the hotel.

"'Who left the door open?' I says to him.

"'It's still open, I see,' says Peewee, lookin' at me.

"We exchanges a few more remarks, 'n' then Peewee tells me he's come to Loueyville to buy some yearlin's fur ole man Harris.

"'There's a dispersal sale to-morrow at the Goodloe farm,' says Peewee. ''N' I hear there's some real nice stuff going under the hammer. General Goodloe croaked this spring. They cleaned him in a cotton deal last year 'n' now their goin' to sell the whole works—studs, brood mares, colts—everything; plows, too—you want a plow? All you need is a plow 'n' a mule to put you where you belong.'

"'Where's this farm at?' I says.

"'Over in Franklin County,' says Peewee. 'I'm goin' over—want to go 'long?'

"'You're on,' I says. 'I'm not particular who travels with me any more.'

"We gets off the train next mawnin' at a little burg called Goodloe, 'n' there's three or four niggers with three or four ratty-lookin' ole rigs to drive hossmen out to the sale. It's a fierce drive, 'n' the springs is busted on our rig. I thinks we'll never get there, 'n' I begins to cuss Peewee fur bringin' me.

"'What you got to kick at?' says Peewee. 'Ain't you gettin' a free ride? Cheer up—think of all the nice plows you're goin' to see.'

"'You take them plows to hell 'n' make furrows in the cinders with 'em,' I says, wonderin' if I can get a train back to Loueyville anyways soon.

"But when we gets to the farm I'm glad I come. Man, that was some farm! Miles of level blue-grass pasture, with white fences cuttin' it up into squares, barns 'n' paddocks 'n' sheds, all painted white, just scattered around by the dozen. There's a track to work hosses on, too, but it's pretty much growed up with weeds. The main house is back in some big trees. It's brick 'n' has two porches, one on top of the other, all the way around it.

"The sale is just startin' when we get there. The auctioneer is in the judge's stand at the track 'n' the hosses is showed in the stretch.

"The first thing to sell is brood mares, 'n' they're as good a lot as I ever looks over. I loses Peewee in the crowd, 'n' climbs on to a shed roof to see better.

"Pretty soon here comes a real ole nigger leadin' a mare that looks to be about as old as the nigger. At that she showed class. Her head's still fine, 'n' her legs ain't got so much as a pimple on 'em.

"'Number eleven in your catalogues, gentlemen!' says the auctioneer. 'Mary Goodloe by Victory, first dam Dainty Maid by—what's the use of tellin' you her breedin', you all know her! Gentlemen,' he says, 'how many of you can say you ever owned a Kentucky Derby winner? Well, here's your chance to own one! This mare won the derby in—er—

"'Eighty-three, suh—I saw her do it,' says a man with a white mustache.

"'Eighty-three, thank you, Colonel. You have a fine memory,' says the auctioneer. 'I saw her do it, too. Now, gentlemen,' he says, 'what am I offered for this grand old mare? She's the dam of six winners—three of 'em stake hosses. Kindly start the bidding.'

"'Twenty dollahs!' says the ole nigger who has hold of the mare.

"'Fifty!' says some one else.

"'Hole on dah,' sings out the ole nigger. 'I'se just 'bliged to tell you folks I'se pu'chasin' dis hyar mare fo' Miss Sally Goodloe!'

"The auctioneer looks at the guy who bids fifty.

"'I withdraw that bid,' says the guy.

"'Sold to you for twenty dollars, Uncle Jake,' says the auctioneer. 'Bring on number twelve!'

"'Hyah's yo' twenty dollahs,' says the ole nigger, fishin' out a roll of raggedy bills and passin' 'em up to the stand.

"'Thank you, Uncle Jake. Come to the clerk for your bill of sale this evenin',' says the auctioneer.

"I watches the sale a while longer, 'n' then mooches into the big barn where the yearlin's 'n' two-year-olds is waitin' to be sold. They're a nice lot of colts, but I ain't interested in this young stuff—colts is too much of a gamble fur me. Only about one in fifty'll make good. Somebody else can spend their money on 'em at that kind of odds.

"I goes out of the colt barn 'n' begins to ramble around, lampin' things in general. I comes to a shed full of plows, 'n' I has to laugh when I sees 'em. I'm standin' there with a grin on my face when a nigger comes 'round the shed 'n' sees me lookin' at them plows.

"'Fine plows, sah, an' vehy cheap,' he says.

"'Do I look like I needs a plow?' I says to him.

"'No, sah,' says the nigger, lookin' me over. 'I cyant rightly say you favohs plowin', but howkum you ain' tendin' de sale?'

"'I don't see nothin' over there that suits me,' I says.

"The nigger is sore in a minute.

"'You is suttanly hahd to please, white man,' he says. 'Ain' no finah colts in Kaintucky dan dem.'

"'That may be so, but how about Tennessee?' I says, just to get him goin'.

"'Tennessee! Tennessee!' he says. 'What you talkin' 'bout? Why, we does de fahm wuck wid likelier colts dan dey sends to de races.'

"'I've seed some nifty babies down there,' I says.

"'Look-a-hyar, man!' he says, 'you want to see a colt what am a colt?'

"'How far?' I says.

"'No ways at all, jus' over yondah,' says the nigger.

"'Lead me to it,' I say to him, 'n' he takes me over to a long lane with paddocks down each side of it. All the paddocks is empty but two. In the first one is the ole mare, Mary Goodloe; 'n' next to her is a slashin' big chestnut colt.

"'Cast yo' eyes on dat one!' says the nigger.

"I don't say nothin' fur five minutes. I just looks at that colt. I never sees one like him before, nor since. There's some dead leaves blowin' around the paddock 'n' he's jumpin' on 'em with his front feet like a setter pup playin'. Two jumps 'n' he's clear across the paddock! His shoulders 'n' quarters 'n' legs is made to order. His head 'n' throat-latch is clean as a razor, 'n' he's the proudest thing that ever stood on four legs. He looks to be comin' three, but he's muscled like a five-year-old.

"'How 'bout him, boss?' says the nigger after a while.

"'Well,' I says, 'they broke the mold when they made that one!'

"'Dar's de mold,' he says, pointin' to the ole mare in the next paddock. 'She's his mammy. Dat's Mahey Goodloe, named fo' ole Miss Goodloe what's dade. Dat mare win de derby. Dis hyar colt's by impo'ted Calabash.'

"'When does this colt sell?' I asks him.

"'He ain' fo' sale,' says the nigger. 'De estate doan own him. De General done gib him to Miss Sally when de colt's bohn.'

"'Where's she at now?' I says to the nigger. I had to own that colt if my roll could reach him—I knowed that 'fore I'd looked at him a minute.

"'Up to de house, mos' likely,' says the nigger. 'You'd better save yo' shoe leather, boss. She ain' gwine to sell dat colt no matter what happens.'

"I beats it up to the big house, but when I gets there I see nobody's livin' in it. The windows has boards across 'em. I looks in between the cracks 'n' sees a whale of a room. Hangin' from the ceilin' is two things fur lights all covered with glass dingles. They ain't nothin' else in the room but a tall mirror, made of gold, that goes clear to the ceilin'. I walks clean around the house, but it's sure empty, so I oozes back to the barns 'n' collars the sales clerk.

"'I'm a-lookin' fur Miss Goodloe,' I tells him. 'A nigger says she's at the house, but I've just been up there 'n' they ain't even furniture in it.'

"'No,' says the clerk; 'the furniture was sold to a New York collector two weeks ago. Miss Goodloe is livin' in the head trainer's house across the road yonder. She won't have that long, I don't reckon, though I did hear she's fixin' to buy it when the farm sells, with some money ole Mrs. Goodloe left her.'

"I goes over to the little house the clerk points out, 'n' knocks. A right fat nigger woman, with her sleeves rolled up, comes to the door.

"'What you want?' she says.

"'I want to see Miss Goodloe,' I says.

"'You cyant see her. She ain' seein' nobody,' says the nigger woman, 'n' starts to shut the door.

"'Wait a minute, aunty," I says. 'I got to see her—it's business, sure-enough business.'

"'Doan you aunty me!' says she. 'Now, you take yo' bisniss with you an' ramble! Bisniss has done sole off eve'y stick an' stone we got! I doan want to hyar no mo' 'bout bisniss long as I live'—'n' bang goes the door.

"I waits a minute 'n' then knocks again—nothin' doin'. I knocks fur five minutes steady. Pretty soon here she comes, but this time she's got a big brass-handled poker with her.

"'Ef I has to clout you ovah de haid wid dis pokah you ain' gwine to transack no mo' bisniss fo' a tollable long time!' she says. She's mad all right, 'n' she hollers this at me pretty loud.

"'Fore I can say anythin' a dame steps out in the hall 'n' looks at me 'n' the nigger woman 'n' the poker.

"'What's the matter, Liza?' she says to the nigger woman, 'n' her voice is good to listen at. You don't care what she says, just so she keeps a-sayin' it. She's got on a white dress with black fixin's on it, 'n' she just suits her dress, 'cause her hair is dark 'n' her face is white, 'n' she has great big eyes that put me in mind of—I don't know what! She ain't very tall, but she makes me feel littler'n her when she looks at me. She's twenty-four or five, mebby, but I'm a bum guesser at a dame's age.

"'Dis pusson boun' he gwine to see you an' I boun' he ain', Miss Sally,' says the nigger woman. The little dame comes out on the porch.

"'I am Miss Goodloe,' she says to me. 'What do you wish?'

"'I want to buy a hoss from you, ma'am,' I says to her.

"'The horses are being sold across the way at that biggest barn,' she says.

"'Yes'm,' I says, 'I've just come from there. I—'

"'Have you been watching the sale?' she says, breakin' in.

"'Yes'm—some,' I says.

"'Liza, you may go to your kitchen now,' she says. 'Can you tell me if they have sold the mare, Mary Goodloe, yet?' she says to me when the nigger woman's gone.

"'Yes'm, she was sold,' I says.

"She flinches like I'd hit her 'n' I see her chin begin to quiver, but she bites her lip 'n' I looks off down the road to give her a chance. Pretty soon she's back fur more. I'm feelin' like a hound.

"'Do you know who bought her?' she says.

"'A nigger man they call Uncle Jake buys her,' I says.

"'Uncle Jake!' she says. 'Are you sure? Was he an old man with poor eyesight?'

"'He was old all right,' I says. 'But I don't notice about his eyes. He give twenty dollars fur her.'

"'Is that all she brought?' she says.

"'Well, she brings more,' I says, 'only the ole man makes a speech 'n' tells 'em he's buying her fur you. Everybody quit biddin' then.' She stands there a minute, her eyes gettin' bigger 'n' bigger. I never see eyes so big 'n' soft 'n' dark.

"'Would you do me a favor?' she says at last.

"'Fifty of 'em,' I says. She gives me a little smile.

"'One's all that's necessary, thank you,' she says. 'Will you find Uncle Jake for me and tell him I wish to see him?'

"'You bet I will,' I says, 'n' I beats it over to the barns… I finds Uncle Jake, 'n' he's got weak eyes all right—he can't hardly see. He's got rheumatism, too—he's all crippled up with it. When I gets back with him, Miss Goodloe's still standin' on the porch.

"'I want to find out who bought old Mary, Uncle Jake,' she says. 'Do you know?'

"'I was jus' fixin' to come over hyar an' tell you de good news, Miss Sally,' says Uncle Jake. 'When dey puts ole Mahey up to' sale, she look pow'ful ole an' feeble. De autioneer jes 'seeches 'em fo' to make some sawt o' bid, but hit ain' no use. Dey doan' nobody want her. Hit look lak de auctioneer in a bad hole—he doan' know what to do zakly. Hit's gittin' mighty 'bahassin' fo' him, so I say to him: "Mr. Auctioneer, I ain' promisin' nothin', but Miss Sally Goodloe mought be willin' to keep dis hyar ole mare fo' 'membrance sake." De auctioneer am mighty tickled, an' he say, "Uncle Jake, ef Miss Sally will 'soom de 'sponsibility ob dis ole mare, hit would 'blige me greatly." Dat's howkum ole Mahey back safe in de paddock, an' dey ain' nobody gwine to take her away fum you, honey!'

"'Uncle Jake,' says Miss Goodloe, 'where is your twenty dollars you got for that tobacco you raised?'

"'Ain' I tole you 'bout dat, Miss Sally? Dat mis'able money done skip out an' leave thoo a hole in ma pocket,' says Uncle Jake, 'n' pulls one of his pants pockets inside out. Sure enough, there's a big hole in it.

"'Didn't I give you a safety-pin to pin that money in your inside coat pocket?' says Miss Goodloe.

"'Yess'm, dat's right,' he says. 'But I'se countin' de money one day an' a span ob mules broke loose an' stahts lickety-brindle fo' de bahn, an' aimin' to ketch de mules, I pokes de money in de pocket wid de hole. I ain' neber see dat no-'coun' money sence.'

"Miss Goodloe looks at the ole nigger fur a minute.

"'Uncle Jake … oh, Uncle Jake …' she says. 'These are the things I just can't stand!' Her eyes fill up, 'n' while she bites her lip agin, it ain't no use. Two big tears roll down her cheeks. 'I'll see you in a moment,' she says to me, 'n' goes inside.

"'Bad times! Bad times, pow'ful bad times!' says Uncle Jake, 'n' hobbles away a-mutterin' to hisself.

"It's begun to get under my skin right. I'm feelin' queer, 'n' I gets to thinkin' I'd better beat it. 'Don't be a damn fool!' I says to myself. 'You ain't had nothin' to do with the cussed business 'n' you can't help it none. If you don't buy this colt somebody else will.' So I sets on the edge of the porch 'n' waits. It ain't so long till Miss Goodloe comes out again. I gets up 'n' takes off my hat.

"'What horse do you wish to buy?' she says.

"'A big chestnut colt by Calabash, dam Mary Goodloe,' I says. 'They tell me you own him.'

"'Oh, I can't sell him!' she says, backin' towards the door. 'No one has ever ridden him but me.'

"'Is he fast?' I asks her.

"'Of course,' she says.

"'Is he mannered?' I asks.

"'Perfectly,' she says.

"'He ain't never seen a barrier, I suppose?' I says.

"'He's broken to the barrier,' she says then.

"'Who schools him?' I says. 'You tells me nobody's been on him but you—'

"'I schooled him at the barrier with the other two-year-olds,' she says.

"'Whee!' I says. 'You must be able to ride some.'

"'I'd be ashamed of myself if I couldn't,' she says.

"'Are you sure you won't sell him?' I asks her.

"'Positive,' she says, 'n' I see she means it.

"'What you goin' to do with him?' I says. 'Don't you know it's wicked not to give that colt a chance to show what he can do?'

"'I know it is,' she says. 'But I have no money for training expenses.'

"I studies a minute, 'n' all of a sudden it comes to me. 'You were just achin' to help this little dame a while ago,' I says to myself. 'Here's a chance … be a sport!' The colt might make good, 'n' she could use a thousand or so awful easy.

"'Miss Goodloe,' I says out loud, 'I might as well tell you I'm in love with that colt.' She gives me a real sweet smile.

"'Isn't he a darling?' she says, her face lightin' up.

"'That isn't the way I'd put it,' I says, 'but I guess we mean the same. Now, I'm a race-hoss trainer. You read these letters from people I'm workin' fur, 'n' then I'll tell you what I want to do.' I fishes out a bunch of letters from my pocket 'n' she sets down on the steps 'n' begins to read 'em solemn as owls.

"'Why do they call you Blister?' she asks, lookin' up from a letter.

"'That's a nickname,' I says.

"'Oh,' she says, 'n' goes on readin'. When she gets through she hands the letters to me. 'They seem to have a lot of confidence in you, Blis—Mr. Jones,' she says.

"'Stick to Blister,' I says, ''n' I'll always come when I'm called.'

"'Very well, Blister,' she says. 'Now, why did you wish me to read those letters?'

"'I asks you to read them letters, because I got a hunch that colt's a winner, 'n' I want to take a chance on him,' I says. 'I got a string of hosses at New Awlins—now, you let me ship that colt down there 'n' I'll get him ready. I'll charge you seventy-five a month to be paid out his winnings. If he don't win—no charge. Is it a go?' She don't say nothin' fur quite a while. 'I sees a dozen hossmen I knows over at the sale,' I says. 'If you want recommends I can get any of 'em to come over 'n' speak to you about me.'

"'No, I feel that you are trustworthy,' she says, 'n' goes to studyin' some more. 'What I should like to know,' she says after while, 'is this: Do trainers make a practise of taking horses at the same terms you have just offered me?'

"'Sure they do,' I lies, lookin' her in the eye. 'Any trainer'll take a chance on a promisin' colt.'

"'Are you certain?' she asks me, earnest.

"'Yes'm, dead certain,' I says. She don't say nothin' fur maybe five minutes, then she gets up 'n' looks at me steady.

"'You may take him,' she says, 'n' walks into the house.

"I finds Uncle Jake 'n' eases him two bucks. It sure helps his rheumatism. He gets as spry as a two-year-old. He tells me there's a train at nine that evenin'. I sends him to the depot to fix it so I can take the colt to Loueyville in the express car, 'n' he says he'll get back quick as he can. I hunts up Peewee, but he's goin' to stay all night, 'cause the yearlin's won't sell till next day.…

"The sun's goin' down when we starts fur the depot, Uncle Jake drivin', 'n' me settin' behind, leadin' the colt. The sunlight's red, 'n' when it hits that chestnut colt he shines like copper. Say, but he was some proud peacock!

"I sends word to Miss Goodloe we're comin', 'n' she's waitin' at the gate. The colt nickers when he sees her, 'n' she comes 'n' takes the lead strap from me. Then she holds up her finger at the colt.

"'Now, Boy-baby!' she says. 'Everything depends on you—you're all mammy has in the world … will you do your best for her sake?' The colt paws 'n' arches his neck. 'See, he says he will!' she says to me.

"'What's his name?' I asks her.

"'Oh, dear, he hasn't any!' she says. 'I've always called him Boy-baby.'

"'He can't race under that,' I says.

"'Between now and the time he starts I'll think of a name for him,' she says. 'Do you really believe he can win?'

"'They tell me his dam wins twenty thousand the first year she raced,' I says.

"'He'd be our salvation if he did that,' she says.

"'There's a name,' I says. 'Call him Salvation!' She says over it two or three times.

"'That's not a bad racing name, is it?' she asks me.

"'No'm,' I says. 'That's a good name.'

"'Very well, Boy-baby,' she says to the colt. 'I christen thee Salvation, with this lump of sugar. That's a fine name! Always bear it bravely.' She puts her arms around the colt's neck 'n' kisses him on the nose. Then she hands me the lead strap 'n' steps aside. 'Good-by, and good luck!' she says.

"When we turns the bend, way down the road, she's still standin' there watchin' us …

"I sends the colt down with a swipe, 'n' he's been at the track a week when I gets to New Awlins. The boys have begun to talk 'bout him already, he's such a grand looker. He don't give me no trouble at all. He's quiet 'n' kind 'n' trustin'. Nothin' gets him excited, 'n' I begins to be afraid he'll be a sluggard. It don't take me long to see he won't do fur the sprints—distance is what he likes. He's got a big swingin' gallop that sure fools me at first. He never seems to be tryin' a lick. When he's had two months prep. I has my exercise-boy let him down fur a full mile. Man! he just gallops in forty flat! Then I know I've got somethin'!

"His first race I'm as nervous as a dame. I don't bet a dollar on him fur fear I'll queer it. Anyway, he ain't a good price—you can't keep him under cover, he's too flashy-lookin'.

"Well, he comes home alone, just playin' along, the jock lookin' back at the bunch.

"'How much has he got left?' I says to the jock after the race.

"'Him!' says the jock. 'Enough to beat anybody's hoss!'

"I starts him the next week, 'n' he repeats, but it ain't till his third race that I know fur sure he's a great hoss, with a racin' heart.

"Sweeney has the mount, 'n' he don't get him away good—the colt's layin' a bad seventh at the quarter. Banjo's out in front, away off—'n' she's a real good mare. That pin-head Sweeney don't make a move till the stretch, then he tries to come from seventh all at once … 'n' by God, he does it! That colt comes from nowhere to the Banjo mare while they're goin' an eighth! The boy on Banjo goes to the bat, but the colt just gallops on by 'n' breezes in home.

"'You bum!' I says to Sweeney. 'What kind of a trip do you call that? Did you get off 'n' shoot a butsy at the stretch bend?'

"'If I has a match I would,' says Sweeney. 'I kin smoke it easy, 'n' then back in ahead of them turtles.'

"I know then the colt's good enough fur the stakes, 'n' I writes Miss Goodloe to see if I can use the fourteen hundred he's won to make the first payments. She's game as a pebble, 'n' says to stake him the limit. So I enters him from New Awlins to Pimlico.

"I've had all kinds of offers fur the colt, but I always tell 'em nothin' doin'. One day a lawyer named Jack Dillon, who owns a big stock farm near Lexington, comes to me 'n' says he wants to buy him.

"'He ain't fur sale,' I tells him.

"'Everything's for sale at a price,' he says. 'Now I want that colt worse than I do five thousand. What do you say?'

"'I ain't sayin' nothin',' I says.

"'How does eight thousand look to you?' he says.

"'Big,' I says. 'But you'll have to see Miss Goodloe at Goodloe, Kentucky, if you want this colt.'

"Oh, General Goodloe's daughter,' he says. 'Does she own him? When I go back next week I'll drop over and see her.'

"Well, Salvation starts in the Crescent City Derby, 'n' when he comes under the wire Miss Goodloe's five thousand bucks better off. He wins another stake, 'n' then I ship him with the rest of my string to Nashville. The second night we're there, here comes Jack Dillon to the stall with a paper bag in his hand.

"'You didn't get the colt?' I says to him.

"'No,' he says. 'I didn't get anything … I lost something.'

"'What?' I says.

"'Never mind what,' he says. 'Here, put this bag of sugar where I can get at it. She told me to feed him two lumps a day.'

"After that he comes every evenin' 'n' gives the colt sugar, but he's poor company. He just stands lookin' at the colt. Half the time he don't hear what I say to him.

"The colt wins the Nashville Derby, 'n' then I ships him to Loueyville for the Kentucky. We want him to win that more'n all the rest, but as luck goes, he ketches cold shippin', 'n' he can't start.

"Miss Goodloe comes over to Loueyville one mawnin' to see him. She gets through huggin' him after while, 'n' sets down in a chair by the stall door.

"'Now, start at the beginning and tell me everything,' she says.

"So I tells her every move the colt makes since I has him.

"'How did he happen to catch cold?' she asks.

"'Constitution undermined,' I says.

"'Oh! How dreadful!' she says. 'What caused it?'

"'Sugar,' I says, never crackin' a smile.

"She flushes up, 'n' I see she knows what I mean, but she don't ask no more questions. Before she leaves, Miss Goodloe tells me she'll come to Cincinnati if the colt's well enough to start in the Latonia Derby.

"I ships to Cincinnati. About noon derby day I'm watchin' the swipes workin' on the colt. He's favorite fur the Latonia 'n' there's mebby a hundred boobs in front of the stall rubberin' at him.

"'Please let dis lady pass,' I hears some one say, 'n' here comes Liza helpin' Miss Goodloe through the crowd. When Liza sees me I ducks 'n' holds up my arm like I'm dodgin' somethin'. She grins till her mouth looks like a tombstone factory.

"'I clean fohgot to bring dat pokah wid me,' she says. 'Hyar you is, Miss Sally.'

"I don't hardly know Miss Goodloe. There's nothin' like race day to get a dame goin'. Her eyes are shinin' 'n' her cheeks are pink, 'n' she don't look more'n sixteen.

"'Why, Boy-baby,' she says to the colt, 'you've grown to be such a wonderful person I can't believe it's you!' The colt knows it's race day 'n' he don't pay much attention to her. 'Oh, Boy-baby!' says Miss Goodloe, 'I'm afraid you've had your head turned … you don't even notice your own mammy!'

"'His head ain't turned, it's full of race,' I says to her. He'll come down to earth after he gets that mile-'n'-a-quarter under his belt.'

"When the bugle blows, Miss Goodloe asks me to stay in her box with her while the derby's run. There's twenty thousand people there 'n' I guess the whole bunch has bet on the colt, from the way it sounds when the hosses parade past. You can't hear nothin' but 'Salva-a-tion! Oh, you Salva-a-tion!'

"They get a nice break all in a line, but when they come by the stand the first time, the colt's layin' at the rail a len'th in front, fightin' fur his head.

"'Salva-a-tion!' goes up from the stands in one big yell.

"'There he goes!' hollers some swipe across the track, 'n' then everything is quiet.

"Miss Goodloe's got her fingers stuck into my arm till it hurts. But that don't bother me.

"'Isn't it wonderful?' she says, but the pink's gone out of her cheeks. She's real pale …

"They never get near the colt.… He comes home alone with that big easy, swingin' gallop of his, 'n' goes under the wire still fightin' fur his head.

"Then that crowd goes plumb crazy! Men throws their hats away, 'n' dances around, yellin' till they can't whisper! Miss Goodloe is shakin' so I has to hold her up.

"'Isn't he grand? How would you like to own him?' a woman in the next box says to her.

"'I'd love it,' says Miss Goodloe, 'n' busts out cryin'. 'You'll think I'm an awful baby!' she says to me.

"'I don't mind them kind of tears,' I says.

"'Neither do I,' she says, laughin', 'n' dabbin' at her face with a dinky little hankerchiff.

"I wait till they lead the colt out in front of the stand, 'n' put the floral horseshoe round his neck, then I takes Miss Goodloe down to shake hands with the jock.

"'How do you like him?' she says to the jock.

"'Well, ma'am,' he says, 'I've ridden all the good ones, but he's the best hoss I ever has under me!'

"'What's the record fur this race?' I yells across the track to the timer. He points down at the time hung up.

"'That's it!' he hollers back.

"'Didn't he do it easy?' says the jock to me.

"There's no use to tell you what Salvation done to them Eastern hosses; everybody knows about that. It got so the ginnies would line up in a bunch, every time he starts, 'n' holler: 'They're off—there he goes!' They does it regular, 'n' pretty soon the crowds get next 'n' then everybody does it. He begins to stale off at Pimlico, so I ships him to Miss Goodloe, 'n' writes her to turn him out fur three or four months.

"It ain't a year from the time we leaves Miss Goodloe standin' in the road till then. Salvation wins his every start. He's copped off forty thousand bucks. I guess that's goin' some!

"When the season closes I goes through Kentucky on my way South, 'n' I takes a jump over from Loueyville to see the colt. Miss Goodloe's bought a hundred acres around her little house, 'n' the colt's turned out in a nice bluegrass field. We're standin' watchin' him, when she puts somethin' in my pocket. I fishes it out 'n' it's a check fur five thousand bucks.

"'I've been paid what's comin' to me,' I says. 'Nothin' like this goes.'

"'Oh, yes, it does!' she says. 'I have investigated since you told me that story. Trainers do not pay expenses on other people's horses. Now, put that back in your pocket or I will be mortally offended.'

"'I don't need it,' I says.

"'Neither do I,' she says. 'I haven't told you—guess what I've been offered for Salvation?'

"'I give it up,' I says.

"'Fifty thousand dollars,' she says. 'What do you think of that?'

"'Are you goin' to sell?' I asks her.

"'Certainly not,' she says.

"'He'll earn twice that in the stud,' I says. 'Who makes you the offer—Mr. Dillon?'

"'No, a New York man,' she says. 'I guess Mr. Dillon has lost interest in him.'

"I guess he hasn't,' I says. 'I seen him at Pimlico, 'n' he was worse 'n ever.'

"'Did—did he still feed him sugar?' she says, but she don't look at me while she's gettin' it out.

"'You bet he did,' I says.

"'Shall you see him again?' she asks me.

"'Yes'm, I'll see him at New Awlins,' I says.

"'You may tell him,' she says, her face gettin' pink, 'that as far as my horse is concerned I haven't changed my mind.'

"On the way back to the house I gets to thinkin'.

"'I'm goin' round to the kitchen 'n' say hello to Aunt Liza,' I says to Miss Goodloe.

"Liza's glad to see me this time—mighty glad.

"'Hyah's a nice hot fried cake fo' you, honey,' she says.

"'This ain't no fried cake,' I says. 'This is a doughnut.'

"'You ain' tryin' to tell me what a fried cake is, is you?' she says.

"'Aunt Liza,' I says to her while I'm eatin' the doughnut, 'I sees Mr. Jack Dillon after he's been here, 'n' he acts like he'd had a bad time. Did you take a poker to him, too?'

"'No, sah,' she says. 'Miss Sally tended to his case.'

"'It's too bad she don't like him,' I says.

"'Who say she doan' like him?' says Liza. 'He come a sto'min' round hyah like he gwine to pull de whole place up by de roots an' transport hit ovah Lexington way. Fust he's boun' fo' to take dat hoss what's done win all dem good dollahs. Den his min' flit f'om dat to Miss Sally, an' he's aimin' to cyar her off like she was a 'lasses bar'l or a yahd ob calico. Who is dem Dillons, anyway? De Goodloes owned big lan' right hyar in Franklin County when de Dillons ain' nothin' but Yankee trash back in Maine or some other outlan'ish place! Co'se we sends him 'bout his bisniss—him an' his money! Ef he comes roun' hyar, now we's rich again, an' sings small fo' a while. Miss Sally mighty likely to listen to what he got to say—she so kindly dat a-way.'

"At the depot in Goodloe that night I writes a wire to Jack Dillon. 'If you still want Salvation better come to Goodloe,' is what the wire says. I signs it 'n' sends it 'n' takes the train fur New Awlins.

"The colt ruptures a tendon not long after that, so he never races no more, 'n' I ain't never been to Goodloe since."

Blister yawned, lay back on the grass and pulled his hat over his face.

"Is Salvation alive now?' I asked.

"Sure he's alive!" The words come muffled from beneath the hat. "He's at the head of Judge Dillon's stock farm over near Lexington."

"I'm surprised Miss Goodloe sold him," I said.

"She don't … sell him," Blister muttered drowsily. "Mrs. Dillon … still … owns him."