"Now, boys, you've got a chance--come on with 'em!" bellowed the
starter. "Not too fast . . ." he cautioned. "Awl-r-r-right . . . let
'em go-o-!"
They were off like rockets as the barrier shot up, and the bay filly
flashed into the lead. Her slender legs seemed to bear her as though
on the breast of the wind. She did not run--she floated--yet the gap
between herself and her struggling schoolmates grew ever wider.
"Oh, you Alberta!" breathed Blister. Then his tone changed. "Most of
these wise Ikes talk about the sire of a colt, but I'll take a good dam
all the time for mine!"
Standing on my chair, I watched the colts finish their run, the filly
well in front.
"She's a wonder!" I exclaimed, resuming my seat.
"She acts like she'll deliver the goods," Blister conceded. "She's got
a lot of step, but it takes more'n that to make a race hoss. We'll
know about _her_ when she goes the route, carryin' weight against
class."
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.
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