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!"