'" . . .
Blister waved to a waiter and I saw there was to be no more.
"Did you ever see her again?" I inquired.
"Now you're askin' questions," said Blister.
TRES JOLIE
The hot inky odors of a newspaper plant took me by the throat during my
progress in the whiny elevator to the third floor.
Before attacking the day's editorial I tried to decide whether it was
the nerve flicking clash of the linotypes, the pecking chatter of the
typewriters, or the jarring rumble of the big cylinder presses that was
taking the life out of my work. I was impartial in this, but gave it
up.
And then a letter was dropped on the desk before me, and I recognized
in the penciled address upon the envelope the unformed hand of Blister
Jones.
"Dear Friend," the letter began, and somehow the ache behind my eyes
died out as I read. 'I guess you are thinking me dead by this time on
account of not hearing from me sooner in answer to yours. Well, this
is to show you I am alive and kicking. I guess you have read how good
the mare is doing. She is a good mare, as good as her dam. I had some
mean luck with her at Nashville by her going lame for me, so she could
not start in the big stake, but she is O. K. now. I note what you said
about being sick. That is tough. Why don't you come to Louisville and
see the mare run in the derby. If you would only bet, I can give you a
steer that would put you right and pay all your expenses. Well, this
is all for the present.
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