The colts were now being led to their quarters by stable-boys. When the boy leading the winner passed, he threw us a triumphant smile.
"I guess she's bad!" he opined.
"Some baby," Blister admitted. Then with disgust: "They've hung a fierce name on her though."
"Ain't it the truth!" agreed the boy.
"What is her name?" I asked, when the pair had gone by.
"They call her Trez Jolly," said Blister. "Now, ain't that a hell of a name? I like a name you can kind-a warble." He had pronounced the French phrase exactly as it is written, with an effort at the "J" following the sibilant.
"Très Jolie—it's French," I explained, and gave him the meaning and proper pronunciation.
"Traysyolee!" he repeated after me. "Say, I'm a rube right. Tra-aysyole-e in the stretch byano-o-se!" he intoned with gusto. "You can warble that!" he exclaimed.
"I don't think much of Blister—for beauty," I said. "Of course, that isn't your real name."
"No; I had another once," he replied evasively. "But I never hears it much. The old woman calls me 'thatdambrat,' 'n' the old man the same, only more so. I gets Blister handed to me by the bunch one winter at the New Awlin' meetin'."