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Foote, John Taintor, 1881-1950

"Blister Jones"


I saw Judge Dillon's big arm gather in his trembling wife, and he held
her close while the heavens rocked.
These things I saw through a blur, and then I felt Miss Goodloe sway at
my side. She clutched at the railing, missed it and sank slowly into
her seat. I but glimpsed a white face in which the eyes had changed
from blue to violet, when it was covered by two slender gloved hands.
"Are you ill?" I called, as I bent above her.
She shook her head.
"It was too much," I barely heard.
I stood bewildered, and then my stupid mind cast out a soulless image
that it held and fixed the true one there.
"I rarely make this kind of a fool of myself," she said at last.
"That I can quite believe," I replied, smiling down at her. She
returned the smile with one that held a fine good comradeship, and we
seemed to have known each other long. . . .

A crowd had packed themselves before the stall. As we reached it
Blister appeared in the doorway.
"Get back! Get back!" he ordered, and pointing to the panting mare:
"Don't you think she's earned a right to breath?"
The crowd fell away, except one rather shabby little old man.
"No one living," said he, "appreciates what she has done moh than
myself, suh, but I desiah to lay ma hand on a real race mayah once moh
befoh I die!"
Blister's face softened.
"Come on in, Mr. Sanford," he invited. "Why _you_ win the derby once,
didn't you?"
"Thank you, suh. Yes, suh, many yeahs ago," said the little old man,
and removing his battered hat he entered the stall, his white head bare.


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