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.