"Well," said Blister, "his mother lives in New York in a brownstone house he bought her, with two Swede girls to do as much work as she'll let 'em. When he comes home, she calls him 'Micky.' Is there class to him?"
"Yes," I said, "there's class to him."
EXIT BUTSY
"What's all them rubes got ribbons on 'em fur?" asked Blister.
I followed his gaze to a group of variously garbed men and women who had just rounded the paddock, and who slowly bore down upon us as they drifted from stall to stall in a haphazard inspection of the great racing plant at Latonia. Prominent upon the person of each member of this party was a bountiful strip of yellow ribbon. The effect was decidedly gay.
I had encountered similar ribbons in every nook and cranny of the Queen City during the last few days, and I knew that each bore in thirty-six point Gothic condensed, the words, "Ohio State Grange."
"Those are Ohio farmers and their wives who are attending a convention in Cincinnati," I explained. "The ribbons are convention badges."
Blister allowed the saddle girth he was mending to lie unnoticed across his knees as the delegates by twos and threes straggled past.
Each female member of the party carried a round paper fan with a cane handle, and talked unceasingly. These streams of conversation were entirely regardless of one another. It was as though many brooks babbled onward side by side, but never joined. One fragment that reached us, I preserved.