"Got to do it," he grinned. "If I was to set on a track fence without ma clock in my mitt, I'd get so nur-r-vous! Purty soon I'd be as fidgity as that filly back there. Feelin' this ole click-click kind-a soothes my fevered brow."
In a silence that followed I watched a whipped-cream cloud adrift on the deepest of deep blue skies.
"Hi, hum!" said Blister presently, and extending his arms in a pretense of stretching, he shoved me off the fence. "You're welcome," he said to my protests, and added: "There's a nice matched pair."
A boy, leading a horse, was emerging from the mouth of a stall.
The contrast between them was startling—never had I seen a horse with so much elegant apparel; rarely had I seen a boy with so little. The boy, followed by the horse, began to walk a slow circle not far from where we sat. Suddenly the boy addressed Blister.
"Say, loan me the makin's, will you, pal?" he drawled.
From his hip pocket Blister produced some tobacco in a stained muslin bag and a wad of crumpled cigarette papers. These he tossed toward the boy.
"Yours trooly," muttered that worthy, as he picked up the "makin's". "Heard the news about Hicky Rogers?" he asked, while he rolled a cigarette.
"Nothin', except he's a crooked little snipe," Blister answered.
"Huh! that ain't news," said the boy. "They've ruled him off—that's what I mean."