"Hi, hum!" said Blister presently, and extending his arms in a pretense
of stretching, he shoved me off the fence. "You're welcome," he said
to my protests, and added: "There's a nice matched pair."
A boy, leading a horse, was emerging from the mouth of a stall.
The contrast between them was startling--never had I seen a horse with
so much elegant apparel; rarely had I seen a boy with so little. The
boy, followed by the horse, began to walk a slow circle not far from
where we sat. Suddenly the boy addressed Blister.
"Say, loan me the makin's, will you, pal?" he drawled.
From his hip pocket Blister produced some tobacco in a stained muslin
bag and a wad of crumpled cigarette papers. These he tossed toward the
boy.
"Yours trooly," muttered that worthy, as he picked up the "makin's".
"Heard the news about Hicky Rogers?" he asked, while he rolled a
cigarette.
"Nothin', except he's a crooked little snipe," Blister answered.
"Huh! that ain't news," said the boy. "They've ruled him off--that's
what I mean."
"That don't surprise me none," Blister stated. "He's been gettin' too
smart around here fur quite a while. It'll be a good riddance."
"Were you ever ruled off the track?" I asked Blister, as the boy,
exhaling clouds of cigarette smoke, returned to the slow walking of his
horse. He studied in silence a moment.
"Yep--once," he replied. "I got mine at New Awlins fur ringin' a hoss.
That little ole town has got my goat.
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