"It smells just the same," I said. "Horses, leather and liniment!
Where's Tres Jolie?"
"In the second stall," said Blister, pointing. "Wait a minute--I'll
have a swipe lead her out. Chick!"--this to a boy dozing on a rickety
stool--"if your time ain't too much took up holdin' down that chair,
this gentleman 'ud like to take a pike at the derby entry."
Like a polished red-bronze sword leaping from a black velvet scabbard
the mare came out of her stall into the sunlight, the boy clinging
wildly to the strap. She snorted, tossed her glorious head, and shot
her hind feet straight for the sky.
"You, Jane, be a lady now!" yelled the boy, trying to stroke the
arching neck.
"Why does he call her Jane?" I asked.
"Stable name," Blister explained. "Don't get too close--she's right on
edge!" And after a pause, his eyes shining: "Can you beat her?"
I shook my head, speechless.
"Neither can _they_!" Blister's hand swept the two-mile circle of
stalls that held somewhere within their big curve--the enemy.
The boy at the mare's head laughed joyously.
"They ain't got a chance!" he gloated.
"All right, Chick," said Blister. "Put her up! Hold on!" he corrected
suddenly. "Here's the boss!" And I became aware of a throbbing motor
behind me. So likewise did Tres Jolie.
"Whoa, Jane! Whoa, darling; it's mammy!" came in liquid tones from the
motor.
The rearing thoroughbred descended to earth with slim inquiring ears
thrown forward, and I remembered that Blister had described Mrs.
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