Mrs. Dillon's face as she, too, entered the stall was tear-wet and alight with a great tenderness.
A boy dodged his way to where we stood. His face and the front of his blue and gold jacket were encrusted with dirt.
"You shoe-maker!" was Blister's scornful greeting.
"Honest to Gawd it wasn't my fault, Judge," the boy piped, sniffling. "Honest to Gawd it wasn't! That sour-headed bay stud of Henderson's swung his ugly butt under the mare's nose, 'n' just as I'm takin' back so the dog won't kick a leg off her, that mutt of a starter lets 'em go!"
"All right, sonny," said the judge. "You rode a nice race when you did get away."
"Much obliged, sir. I just wanted to tell you," said the boy, and he disappeared in the crowd as Judge Dillon joined those in the stall.
I stayed outside watching the group about Très Jolie, and never had my heart gone out to people more. Deeply I wished to keep them in my life… I wondered if we would ever meet again. But pshaw!—I was nothing to them. Well, I would go back to Cincinnati when they left in the morning.…
"Can't we have you for a week at Thistle Ridge?" Mrs. Dillon stood looking up at me.
"Why, that's very kind—" I stammered.
"The north pasture is a wilderness this year, the loaf of bread, the jug of wine and the bough are waiting. You can, of course, furnish your own verses."