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."