"Get out!" said Blister. "He won't even muss my hair. I never go in to him alone 'n' he don't like company fur his little stunts. He's a regular family hoss in a crowd."
Two stable-boys now climbed the track fence and came toward us rather hastily.
"Been on a vacation?" was Blister's greeting to them.
"Playin' seven-up 'n' tried to finish the game," one of them explained as they started with buckets for the pump.
"That's good. It don't matter whether these hosses get watered, just so you swipes enjoy yourselves," Blister commented.
I watched languidly while the buckets were filled and brought to the horses, until this process reached the barred stall. Then I became interested. One of the boys approached the stall with a bucket in one hand and a pitchfork held near the pronged end in the other. He swung open the lower door and whacked the fork handle back and forth inside, yelling harsh commands in the meantime. He succeeded in getting the bucket where the horse could drink, but the pitchfork was seized and twisted and the boy had difficulty in wrenching it away. It was all he could do to regain possession of it.
"Little pink toes is feelin' like his ole sweet self again," said Blister. "I been worried about him—he's seemed so pie-faced here lately."
"Don't worry none about him," said the boy who had watered The Big Train. "Mama's lamb ain't forgot his cute ways." Then he addressed the other boy. "Say, Chic, you snored somethin' fierce last night! Why don't you sleep in here with Bright Eyes, so's not to disturb me?"
"Would, only I might thrash around in my sleep 'n' hurt him," promptly replied the other boy.
Two figures had come from the street, through the gate and strolled down the line of stalls. One of them was feminine, and in white, and as they drew nearer, "Good evening, Mister Jones," floated to us in an assured though girlish voice.