"I won't say that," said Blister. "There's a lot of good hosses at
stud in this land-of-the-free-when-you-pay-fur-it, but he's up there
with the best of 'em. Did you know I owns him once myself?"
"Not the great Hamilton?" I protested.
"Yep, the great all-the-time, anyhow-'n'-any-place Hamilton," Blister
assured me. "'N' speakin' of class in kids 'n' colts, lemme tell you
about it." He reached for his "makin's" and I waited while he rolled a
cigarette, this process being a necessary prelude to a journey into his
past.
"The year Seattle Sam goes down 'n' out," the words came in a cloud of
cigarette smoke, "I'm at Saratoga. This Seattle is one of the big
plungers, his nod's good with the bookies fur anything he wants to lay,
'n' he sure bets 'em to the sky. He owns a grand string of hosses, 'n'
when one of 'em's out to win, believe me, he carries the coin!"
"All the same they get him at last 'n' there ain't nothin' else talked
about fur a couple of days when the word goes 'round that he's cleaned.
The bunch acts like somebody's dead. They whisper when they tell it.
It's got 'em dazed.
"In them days there's a little squirt called Micky that hangs around
the track. He ain't got a regular job; he just picks up odd mounts on
a work-out now 'n' then. He don't weigh eighty pounds, but he's
fresher'n a bucket of paint. His right name's Vincent Mulligan, 'n'
his mother's a widow woman. I learns that 'cause the old lady sends a
truant officer out to the track after him one day, 'n' the cop puts me
wise after Micky has clumb through a stall window, 'n' give him the
slip.
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