"'Ahem—', he says.
"'Now I get mine!' I says to myself.
"'Mr. Jones,' says the colonel, 'n' his voice is kind-a cheerful. 'The judges will accept your explanation. You may go if you wish.'"
Just as I'm goin' down the steps the colonel stops me.
"'I have a piece of advice for you, Mr. Jones,' he says. His voice ain't cheerful neither. It goes right into my gizzard. I turns and looks at him. 'Keep that horse blistered from now on!' says the colonel.
"Some ginnies is in the weighin'-room under the stand, 'n' hears it all. That's how I gets my name."
TWO RINGERS
"Hello, ole Four Eyes!" was the semi-affectionate greeting of Blister Jones. "I ain't seed you lately."
I had found him in the blacksmith shop at Latonia, lazily observing the smith's efforts to unite Fan Tan and a set of new-made, blue-black racing-plates. I explained how a city editor had bowed my shoulders with the labors of Hercules during the last week, and began to acquire knowledge of the uncertainties connected with shoeing a young thoroughbred.