TRÈS JOLIE
The hot inky odors of a newspaper plant took me by the throat during my progress in the whiny elevator to the third floor.
Before attacking the day's editorial I tried to decide whether it was the nerve flicking clash of the linotypes, the pecking chatter of the typewriters, or the jarring rumble of the big cylinder presses that was taking the life out of my work. I was impartial in this, but gave it up.
And then a letter was dropped on the desk before me, and I recognized in the penciled address upon the envelope the unformed hand of Blister Jones.
"Dear Friend," the letter began, and somehow the ache behind my eyes died out as I read. 'I guess you are thinking me dead by this time on account of not hearing from me sooner in answer to yours. Well, this is to show you I am alive and kicking. I guess you have read how good the mare is doing. She is a good mare, as good as her dam. I had some mean luck with her at Nashville by her going lame for me, so she could not start in the big stake, but she is O. K. now. I note what you said about being sick. That is tough. Why don't you come to Louisville and see the mare run in the derby. If you would only bet, I can give you a steer that would put you right and pay all your expenses. Well, this is all for the present.
"Resp.
"Blister Jones.
"P. S. Now, be sure to come as I want you to see the mare. She is sure a good mare."
I laid the letter down with a sigh. The mare referred to was the now mighty Très Jolie favorite for the Kentucky Derby. I had seen her once when a two-year-old, and I remembered Blister's pride as he told me she was to be placed in his hands by Judge Dillon.
Yes, I would be glad to see "the mare," and I longed for the free sunlit world of which she was a part, as for a tonic. But this was, of course, impossible. So long as hard undiscerning materialism demanded editorials—editorials I must furnish.
"Damn such a pen!" I said aloud, at its first scratch.
"Quite right!" boomed a deep voice. A big gentle hand fell on my shoulder and spun me away from the desk. "See here," the voice went on gruffly, "you're back too soon. We can't afford to take chances with you. Get out of this. The cashier'll fix you up. Don't let me see you around here again till—we have better pens," and he was gone before thanks were possible.
"I'm going to Churchill Downs to cover the derby for a Sunday special!" I sang to the sporting editor as I passed his door.
"The Review of Reviews might use it!" followed me down the hall, and I chuckled as I headed for the cashier's desk.
"Well, well, well!" was Blister's greeting. "Look who's here! I seen your ole specs shinin' in the sun clear down the line!"
I sniffed luxuriously.
"It smells just the same," I said. "Horses, leather and liniment! Where's Très Jolie?"
"In the second stall," said Blister, pointing. "Wait a minute—I'll have a swipe lead her out. Chick!"—this to a boy dozing on a rickety stool—"if your time ain't too much took up holdin' down that chair, this gentleman 'ud like to take a pike at the derby entry."
Like a polished red-bronze sword leaping from a black velvet scabbard the mare came out of her stall into the sunlight, the boy clinging wildly to the strap. She snorted, tossed her glorious head, and shot her hind feet straight for the sky.
"You, Jane, be a lady now!" yelled the boy, trying to stroke the arching neck.
"Why does he call her Jane?" I asked.
"Stable name," Blister explained. "Don't get too close—she's right on edge!" And after a pause, his eyes shining: "Can you beat her?"
I shook my head, speechless.
"Neither can they!" Blister's hand swept the two-mile circle of stalls that held somewhere within their big curve—the enemy.
The boy at the mare's head laughed joyously.
"They ain't got a chance!" he gloated.
"All right, Chick," said Blister. "Put her up! Hold on!" he corrected suddenly. "Here's the boss!" And I became aware of a throbbing motor behind me. So likewise did Très Jolie.
"Whoa, Jane! Whoa, darling; it's mammy!" came in liquid tones from the motor.
The rearing thoroughbred descended to earth with slim inquiring ears thrown forward, and I remembered that Blister had described Mrs. Dillon's voice as "good to listen at."
"Look, Virginia, she knows me!" the velvet voice exclaimed.
Another voice, rather heavy for a woman, but with a fascinating drawl in it, answered:
"Perhaps she fancies you have a milk bottle with you. Isn't this the one you and Uncle Jake raised on a bottle?"
"Yass'm, yass, Miss Vahginia, dat's her! Dat's ma Honey-bird!" came in excited tones from an ancient negro, who alighted stiffly from the motor and peered in our direction. As they approached, he held Mrs. Dillon by the sleeve, and I realized that for Uncle Jake the sun would never shine again.
Judge Dillon, a big-boned silent man, I had met. And after the shower of questions poured upon Blister had abated, and the mare had been gentled, petted and given a lump of sugar with a final hug, he presented me to his wife.
"My cousin, Miss Goodloe," said Mrs. Dillon, and I sensed a mass of tawny hair under the motor veil and looked into a pair of blue eyes set wide apart beneath a broad white brow. It was no time for details.
It developed that Miss Goodloe was from Tennessee, that she was visiting the Dillons at Thistle Ridge near Lexington, and that she liked a small book of verses of which I had been guilty. It further developed that Mrs. Dillon had talked me over with an aunt of mine in Cincinnati, that we were mutually devoted to Blister, and that he had described me to her as "the most educated guy allowed loose." This last I learned as Judge Dillon and Blister discussed the derby some distance from us.
"I feel awed and diffident in the presence of such learning," said Miss Goodloe almost sleepily. "Why did I neglect my opportunities at Dobbs Ferry!"
"I would give a good deal to observe you when you felt diffident, Virginia," said Mrs. Dillon, with a laugh like a silver bell. "Uncle Jake!" she called, "we are going now."
"I have heard of Uncle Jake," I said, as the old man felt his way toward us.
"Yes?" said Mrs. Dillon. "He insisted upon coming to see the derby." She dwelt ever so lightly upon the verb, and Uncle Jake caught it.
"No, Miss Sally," he explained, "dat ain' 'zackly what I mean. Hit's like dis—I just am boun' foh to hyah all de folks shout glory when ma Honey-bird comes home!"
"What if she ain't in front, Uncle Jake?" said Blister, helping the old man into the motor.
"Don't you trifle with me, boy!" replied Uncle Jake severely.
Derby day dawned as fair as turquoise sky and radiant sun could make it. I had slept badly. Until late the night before I had absorbed a haze of cigar smoke and the talk in the hotel lobby. Despite Blister's confidence I had become panicky as I listened. There had been so much assurance about several grave, soft-spoken horsemen who had felt that at the weight the favorite could not win.
"Nevah foh a moment, suh," one elderly well-preserved Kentuckian had said, "will I deny the Dillon mare the right to be the public's choice. But she has nevah met such a field of hosses as this, suh—and she lacks the bone to carry top weight against them."
There had been many nods of approval at this statement, and I had gone to the Dillon party for consolation. But when I reached their apartments I had found the judge more silent than ever, and Mrs. Dillon as nervous as myself. Only Miss Goodloe appeared as usual. Her drawl was soothingly indolent. She seemed entirely oblivious of any tenseness in the atmosphere, and I caught myself wondering what was behind those lazy-lidded blue eyes.
Back in the lobby once more I had found it worse than ever—so many were against the favorite. I had about decided that our hopes were doomed, when a call boy summoned me to the desk with the statement, "Gentleman to see you, sir."
There I had found Blister and I fairly hugged him as he explained that he had dropped in on the way to his "joint," as he called his hotel.
"Listenin' to the knockers?" he asked, reading me at once. "Furget it—them ole mint juleps is dead 'n' buried. You'll go dippy if you fall fur that stuff."
"But the weight!" I gasped.
"Say, they've got you goin' right, ain't they?" Blister exclaimed. "Now listen! She can carry the grand-stand 'n' come home on the bit! Get that fixed in your nut, 'n' then hit the hay."
"Thanks, I believe I shall," I said, and I had followed his advice, though it was long until sleep came to me.
But now as the blue-gray housetops of Louisville sparkled with tiny points of light, and the window-panes swam with pink-gold flame, I looked out over the still sleeping city and laughed aloud at my fears of the night before.
"A perfect day," I thought. "The favorite will surely win, and Blister and Uncle Jake and Mrs. Dillon will be made perfectly happy. A beautiful day, and a fitting one in which to fix the name of Très Jolie among the equine stars!"
"We read some of your poetry last night after you had gone," said Mrs. Dillon, as we waited for the motor to take us to Churchill Downs. "I liked it, and I don't care for verse as a rule, except Omar. I dote on The Rubaiyat; don't you?"
"Yes, indeed," I replied. "I can't quite swallow his philosophy, but he puts it all so charmingly. Some of his pictures are most alluring."
"Do learnéd persons ever long for the wilderness, and the bough, and—the other things?" Miss Goodloe asked innocently.
"Quite frequently," I assured her.
She affected a sigh of relief.
"That's such a help," she said. "It makes them seem more like the rest of us."
A huge motor-car wheeled from the line at the curb and glided past us. A man in the tonneau lifted his hat high above his head as he saw Judge Dillon.
"Oh, you Très Jolie!" he called with a smile. "The best luck in the world to you, Judge!" It was an excessively rich New Yorker, who owned one of the horses about to run in the derby.
"Oh, you Rob Roy!" called back Judge Dillon, also raising his hat. "The same to you, Henry!" And suddenly there was a tug at my nerves, for I realized that this was the salut de combat.
But Uncle Jake, his faith in his "Honey-bird" unshaken as the time drew near, rode in placid contentment on the front seat as we sped to the track. We passed, or were passed by, many motor-cars from which came joyous good wishes as the Dillons were recognized. Each packed and groaning street-car held some one who knew our party, and "Oh, you Très Jolie!" they howled as we swept by. The old negro's ears drank all this in. It was as wine to his spirit. He hummed a soft minor accompaniment to the purring motor, and leaning forward I caught these words:
"Curry a mule an' curry a hoss,
Keep down trubbul wid de stable boss!"
"Luck to her, Judge!" called the man at the gates, as he waved us through. "Ah've bet my clothes on her!"
"You'll need a barrel to get home in!" yelled a voice from a buggy. "The Rob Roy hoss'll beat her and make her like it!"
"You-all are from the East, Ah reckon," we heard the gateman reply. "Ah've just got twenty left that says we raise 'em gamer in Kentucky than up your way!"
At the stables we found Blister.
"How is she?" asked Judge Dillon.
"She's ready," was the answer. "It's all over, but hangin' the posies on her."
"Lemme feel dis mayah," said Uncle Jake, and Mrs. Dillon guided him into the stall.
"I'd like to give her one little nip before she goes to the post, Judge," I heard Blister say in a low voice.
"Not a drop," came the quick reply. "If she can't win on her own courage, she'll have to lose."
"Judge Dillon won't stand fur hop—he won't even let you slip a slug of booze into a hoss," Blister had once told me. I had not altogether understood this at the time, but now I looked at the big quiet man with his splendid sportsmanship, and loved him for it.
A roar came from the grand-stand across the center-field.
"They're off in the first race," said Blister. "Put the saddle on her, boys;" and when this was accomplished: "Bring her out—it's time to warm up."
I had witnessed Très Jolie come forth once before and I drew well back, but it was Mrs. Dillon who led the thoroughbred from the stall. She was breathing wonderful words. Her voice was like the cooing of a dove. Très Jolie appeared to listen.
"She don't handle like that fur us, does she, Chick?" said Blister.
"Nope," said the boy addressed. "I guess she's hypnotized."
"How do you do it?" I inquired of Mrs. Dillon as she led the mare to the track, the rest of us following.
"She's my precious lamb, and I'm her own mammy," was the lucid explanation.
"Now you know," said Blister to me. "Pete!" he called to a boy, approaching, "I want this mare galloped a slow mile. Breeze her the last eighth. Don't take hold of her any harder'n you have to. Try 'n' talk her back."
"I got you," said the boy, as Blister threw him up. Mrs. Dillon let go of the bridle. Très Jolie stood straight on her hind legs, made three tremendous bounds, and was gone. We could see the boy fighting to get her under control, as she sped like a bullet down the track.
"I guess Pete ain't usin' the right langwige," said the boy called Chick, with a wide grin.
"Maybe she ain't listenin' good," added another boy.
"Cut out the joshin' 'n' get her blankets ready," said Blister with a frown.
"I think we'd better start," suggested Judge Dillon.
"Aren't you terribly excited?" I asked Miss Goodloe curiously, as she walked cool and composed by my side. My own heart was pounding.
"Of course," she drawled.
"This girl is made of stone," I thought.
The band was playing Dixie as we climbed the steps of the grand-stand, and the thousands cheered until it was repeated. Hands were thrust at the Dillons from every side, and until we found our box, continued shouts of, "Oh, you Très Jolie!" rose above the crash of the band.
I had witnessed many races in the past and been a part of many racing crowds but never one like this. These people were Kentuckians. The thoroughbred was part of their lives and their traditions. Through him many made their bread. Over the fairest of all their fair acres he ran, and save for their wives and children they loved him best of all.
Once each year for many years they had come from all parts of the smiling bluegrass country to watch this struggle between the satin-coated lords of speed that determined which was king. This journey was like a pilgrimage, and worship was in their shining eyes, as tier on tier I scanned their eager faces.
And now three things happened. A bugle called, and called again. The crowd grew deathly still. And Mrs. Dillon, in a voice that reminded me of a frightened child, asked:
"Where is Blister?"
"He'll be here," said Judge Dillon, patting her hand. And even as a megaphone bellowed: "We are now ready for the thirty-ninth renewal of the Kentucky Derby!" Blister squeezed through the crowd to the door of the box.
He was a rock upon which we immediately leaned.
"Everything all right?" I asked.
"Fine as silk," he said cheerfully, dropping into a seat. "You'll see a race hoss run to-day! Here they come! She's in front!" And held to a proud sedateness by their tiny riders, the contenders in the derby filed through the paddock-gate.
At the head of these leashed falcons was a haughty, burnished, slender-legged beauty—the proudest of them all. Her neck was curving to the bit and she seemed to acknowledge with a gracious bow the roar of acclamation that greeted her. She bore the number 1 upon her satin side, and dropping my eyes to my program I read:
1. Très Jolie—b. m. by Hamilton—dam Alberta. John C. Dillon, Lexington, Kentucky. (Manders—blue and gold.)
"What sort of jockey is Manders?" I asked Blister.
"Good heady boy," was the reply.
"Virginia, oh, Virginia, isn't she a lamb?" gasped Mrs. Dillon.
"She's a stuck-up miss," said Miss Goodloe in an even tone, and I almost hated her.
Number 2 I failed to see as they paraded past.
Number 3 was a gorgeous black, with eyes of fire, powerful in neck and shoulders, and with a long driving hip. He was handsome as the devil and awe-inspiring. Applause from the stands likewise greeted him, though it was feeble to the howl that had met the favorite.
"There's the one we've got to beat," Blister stated.
"Good horse," said Judge Dillon quietly.
3. Rob Roy—bl. s. by Tempus Fugit—dam Marigold. Henry L. Whitley, New York City. (Dawson—green and white.)
I read. I followed him with my eyes and wished him somewhere else. He looked so overpowering—he and the millions behind him.…
At last, a quarter of a mile away, they halted in a gorgeous shifting group. And the taut elastic webbing of the barrier that was to hold them from their flight a little longer, was stretched before them.
They surged against it like a parti-colored wave, and then receding, surged again, but always the narrow webbing held them back. I found the blue and gold. It was almost without motion—it did not shift and whirl with the rest.
"Ain't she the grand actor?" said Blister with delight. "The best mannered thing at the barrier ever I saw."
Then for a moment I lost the colors that had held my gaze. They were blotted out and crowded back by other colors. In that instant the wave conquered. It grew larger and larger. It was coming like the wind. But where was the blue and gold?
I was answered by a heaven-cleaving shout that changed in the same breath to a despairing groan. It was as though a giant had been stricken deep while roaring forth his battle-cry. The thousands had seen what I had missed—their hopes in an instant were gone. In the stillness that followed, a harsh whisper reached me.
"She's left! She's left!" Then an uncanny laugh. The rock had broken.
The wave was greeted by silence. A red bay thundered in the lead. Then came a demon, hard held, with open mouth, and number 3 shone from his raven side. Followed a flying squadron all packed together, their hoofs rolling like drums. And then came aching lengths, and my eyes filled with tears and something gripped my heart and squeezed it as Très Jolie, skimming like an eager swallow, fled past undaunted by that hopeless gap.
"Whar my baby at?" asked Uncle Jake. He had heard the groan and the silence, and fear was in his voice.
"Oh—Uncle Jake—" began Mrs. Dillon. "They—" her voice broke.
"Dey ain' left her at de post? Doan' tell me dat, Miss Sally!"
Mrs. Dillon nodded as though to eyes that saw. Uncle Jake seemed to feel it.
"How fah back? How fah back?" he demanded.
"She ain't got a chance, Uncle Jake!" said Blister, and dropped his head on his arm lying along the railing.
"How fah back?" insisted the old negro.
Blister raised his head and gazed.
"Twenty len'ths," he said, and dropped it again.
"Doan' you fret, Miss Sally," Uncle Jake encouraged. "She'll beat 'em yet!"
"Not this time, old man," said Judge Dillon very gently. He was tearing his program carefully into little pieces, with big shaking hands.…
The horses were around the first turn, and the battle up the back stretch had begun. The red bay was still leading.
"Mandarin in front!" said some one behind us. "Rob Roy second and running easy—the rest nowhere!"
"Jes' you wait!" called Uncle Jake.
"You ole fool nigger!" came Blister's muffled voice.
Even at that distance I could have told which one was last. The same effortless floating stride I had noticed long ago was hers as Très Jolie, foot by foot, ate up the gap. At the far turn she caught the stragglers and one by one she cut them down.
"Oh, gallant spirit!" I thought. "If they had given you but half a chance!"
I lost her among a melee of horses, on the turn, as the leader swung into the stretch. It was the same red bay, but now the boy on the black horse moved his hands forward a little and his mount came easily to the leader's side. There was a short struggle between them and the bay fell back.
"Mandarin's done!" cried the voice behind us. "Rob Roy on the bit!"
"I might have known it!" I thought bitterly. "He looked it all along."
Then a gentle buzzing sprang up like a breeze. It was a whisper that grew to a muttering, and then became a rumble and at last one delirious roar. The giant had recovered, and his mighty cry brought me to my feet, my heart in my throat—for "Très Jolie" he roared … and coming!… coming!!… coming!!!… I saw the blue and gold!
A maniac rose among us and flung his fists above his head. He called upon his gods—and then that magic name—"Très Jolie," he shrieked: "Oh, Baby Doll!" It was Blister—and I marveled.
