"
Blister yawned, lay back on the grass and pulled his hat over his face.
"Is Salvation alive now?' I asked.
"Sure he's alive!" The words come muffled from beneath the hat. "He's
at the head of Judge Dillon's stock farm over near Lexington."
"I'm surprised Miss Goodloe sold him," I said.
"She don't . . . sell him," Blister muttered drowsily. "Mrs.
Dillon . . . still . . . owns him."
A TIP IN TIME
Blister was silent as we left the theater. I had chosen the play
because I had fancied it would particularly appeal to him. The name
part--a characterization of a race-horse tout--had been acceptably done
by a competent young actor. The author had hewn as close to realism as
his too clever lines would permit. There had been a wealth of
Blister's own vernacular used on the stage during the evening, and I
had rather enjoyed it all. But Blister, it was now evident, had been
disappointed.
"You didn't like it?" I said tentatively, as I steered him toward the
blazing word "Rathskeller," a block down the street.
"Oh, I've seed worse shows," was the unenthusiastic reply. "I can get
an earful of that kind of chatter dead easy without pryin' myself loose
from any kale," he added.
I saw where the trouble lay. The terse expressive jargon of the race
track, its dry humor just beneath its hard surface, might delight the
unsophisticated, but not Blister. To him it lacked in novelty.
"I ain't been in one of these here rats ketchers fur quite a while,"
said Blister, as we descended the steps beneath the flambuoyant sign.
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