"That don't surprise me none," Blister stated. "He's been gettin' too smart around here fur quite a while. It'll be a good riddance."
"Were you ever ruled off the track?" I asked Blister, as the boy, exhaling clouds of cigarette smoke, returned to the slow walking of his horse. He studied in silence a moment.
"Yep—once," he replied. "I got mine at New Awlins fur ringin' a hoss. That little ole town has got my goat."
"When was this?" I asked.'
"The year I first starts conditionin' hosses," he answered.
I had noticed that dates totally eluded Blister. A past occurrence as far as its relation to time was concerned, he always established by a contemporary event of the turf. Pressed as to when a thing had taken place he would say, "The year Salvation cops all the colt stakes," or "The fall Whisk-broom wins the Brooklyn Handicap." This had interested me and I now tried to get something more definite from him. He answered my questions vaguely.
"Say, if you're lookin' fur that kind of info," he said at last, "get the almanac or the byciclopedia. These year things slide by so easy I don't get a good pike at one, 'fore another is not more'n a len'th back, 'n' comin' fast."
I saw it was useless.
"Well, never mind just when it happened," I said. "Tell me about it."
"All right," said Blister. "Like I've just said it happens one winter at New Awlins, the year after I starts conditionin' hosses.