We passed, or were passed by, many motor-cars from which came
joyous good wishes as the Dillons were recognized. Each packed and
groaning street-car held some one who knew our party, and "Oh, you Tres
Jolie!" they howled as we swept by. The old negro's ears drank all
this in. It was as wine to his spirit. He hummed a soft minor
accompaniment to the purring motor, and leaning forward I caught these
words:
"Curry a mule an' curry a hoss,
Keep down trubbul wid de stable boss!"
"Luck to her, Judge!" called the man at the gates, as he waved us
through. "Ah've bet my clothes on her!"
"You'll need a barrel to get home in!" yelled a voice from a buggy.
"The Rob Roy hoss'll beat her and make her like it!"
"You-all are from the East, Ah reckon," we heard the gateman reply.
"Ah've just got twenty left that says we raise 'em gamer in Kentucky
than up your way!"
At the stables we found Blister.
"How is she?" asked Judge Dillon.
"She's ready," was the answer. "It's all over, but hangin' the posies
on her."
"Lemme feel dis mayah," said Uncle Jake, and Mrs. Dillon guided him
into the stall.
"I'd like to give her one little nip before she goes to the post,
Judge," I heard Blister say in a low voice.
"Not a drop," came the quick reply. "If she can't win on her own
courage, she'll have to lose."
"Judge Dillon won't stand fur hop--he won't even let you slip a slug of
booze into a hoss," Blister had once told me. I had not altogether
understood this at the time, but now I looked at the big quiet man with
his splendid sportsmanship, and loved him for it.
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