"Here's one bred to suit you!" rasped a nasal voice, and I sat up, half awake, to observe a tall man lead a thorough-bred on to the track and dexterously "throw" a boy into the tiny saddle.
"Why?" Blister questioned.
"He's by Salvation," explained the tall man. "Likely-lookin' colt, ain't he? Think he favors the old hoss any?"
"'Bout the head he does," Blister answered. "He won't girt as big as the old hoss did at the same age."
"Well, if he's half as good as his daddy he's some hoss at that," the tall man stated, as he started up the track, watch in hand.
Blister followed the colt with his eyes.
"Ever hear of Salvation?" he finally asked.
"Oh, yes," I replied.
"Well, I brings out Salvation as a three-year-old, 'n' what happens is quite a bunch of chatter—want to hear it?"
"You know it," I said, dropping into Blister's vernacular.