"Tres 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'."
"How?" I inquired.
"Wait till I get the makin's 'n' I'll tell you," he said, as he got up
and entered a stall.
"One winter I'm swipin' fur Jameson," he began, when he returned with
tobacco and papers. "We ships to New Awlins early that fall. We have
twelve dogs--half of 'em hop-heads 'n' the other half dinks.
"In them days I ain't much bigger 'n a peanut, but I sure thinks I'm a
clever guy. I figger they ain't a gazabo on the track can hand it to
me.
"One mawnin' there's a bunch of us ginnies settin' on the fence at the
wire, watchin' the work-outs. Some trainers 'n' owners is standin' on
the track rag-chewin'.
"A bird owned by Cal Davis is finishin' a mile-'n'-a-quarter, under
wraps, in scan'lous fast time. Cal is standin' at the finish with his
clock in his hand lookin' real contented. All of a sudden the bird
makes a stagger, goes to his knees 'n' chucks the boy over his head.
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