"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.