"Aren't you terribly excited?" I asked Miss Goodloe curiously, as she walked cool and composed by my side. My own heart was pounding.
"Of course," she drawled.
"This girl is made of stone," I thought.
The band was playing Dixie as we climbed the steps of the grand-stand, and the thousands cheered until it was repeated. Hands were thrust at the Dillons from every side, and until we found our box, continued shouts of, "Oh, you Très Jolie!" rose above the crash of the band.
I had witnessed many races in the past and been a part of many racing crowds but never one like this. These people were Kentuckians. The thoroughbred was part of their lives and their traditions. Through him many made their bread. Over the fairest of all their fair acres he ran, and save for their wives and children they loved him best of all.
Once each year for many years they had come from all parts of the smiling bluegrass country to watch this struggle between the satin-coated lords of speed that determined which was king. This journey was like a pilgrimage, and worship was in their shining eyes, as tier on tier I scanned their eager faces.
And now three things happened. A bugle called, and called again. The crowd grew deathly still. And Mrs. Dillon, in a voice that reminded me of a frightened child, asked:
"Where is Blister?"
"He'll be here," said Judge Dillon, patting her hand. And even as a megaphone bellowed: "We are now ready for the thirty-ninth renewal of the Kentucky Derby!" Blister squeezed through the crowd to the door of the box.
He was a rock upon which we immediately leaned.