But just then a chunk of water rolls out of
my eye, 'n' hits my hat--pow! It looks bigger'n Lake Erie, 'n' 'fore I
kin jerk the hat away--pow!--comes another one. I knows the colonel
sees 'em, 'n' I hopes I croak.
"'Ahem--', he says.
"'Now I get mine!' I says to myself.
"'Mr. Jones,' says the colonel, 'n' his voice is kind-a cheerful. 'The
judges will accept your explanation. You may go if you wish.'"
Just as I'm goin' down the steps the colonel stops me.
"'I have a piece of advice for you, Mr. Jones,' he says. His voice
ain't cheerful neither. It goes right into my gizzard. I turns and
looks at him. '_Keep that horse blistered from now on_!' says the
colonel.
"Some ginnies is in the weighin'-room under the stand, 'n' hears it
all. That's how I gets my name."
TWO RINGERS
"Hello, ole Four Eyes!" was the semi-affectionate greeting of Blister
Jones. "I ain't seed you lately."
I had found him in the blacksmith shop at Latonia, lazily observing the
smith's efforts to unite Fan Tan and a set of new-made, blue-black
racing-plates. I explained how a city editor had bowed my shoulders
with the labors of Hercules during the last week, and began to acquire
knowledge of the uncertainties connected with shoeing a young
thoroughbred.
A colored stable-boy stood at Fan Tan's wicked-looking head and
addressed in varied tone and temper a pair of flattened ears.
"Whoa! Baby-doll! Dat's ma honey--dat's ma petty chile-- .
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