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.