He shows us an ad in
his paper askin' fur entries to race over the Ohio Short Ship Circuit.
This circuit is a bunch of race meets that's held on the bull rings at
county fairs up through the state. They're trottin' races mostly, but
they give one runnin' race at a different town each week.
"'Now,' says Butsy, 'I'm born 'n' raised in Mount Clinton, Ohio. I
sees the race meet there frequent 'n' she's a peach. You can have a
hoss lay down 'n' go to sleep on the track if you don't want him to win
'n' then tell the judges he's got spring fever. Everything goes except
murder. We'll take that black stud of mine 'n' Peewee's bay geldin'
'n' hit this punkin circuit. We can win a purse each week fur
travelin' expenses, 'n' what we cops on the side is velvet.'
"'What do you want me fur?' I says.
"'Why,' says Butsy, 'at these county fairs there ain't no bookies.
They just bets from hand to hand. While me 'n' Peewee rides, you
sashay out among the rubes 'n' get the coin down on whichever hoss we
frames to win.'
"We sets there 'n' talks over the proposition most all night. Butsy
says it's a cinch 'n' it ain't long till me 'n' Peewee figgers he's got
it doped right.
"'Let's go against it, Blister,' Peewee says to me. 'What do you say,
old pal?'
"'I'm there with bells on,' I says, 'n' that settles it. I ships my
colts to Judge Dillon, 'n' the next week we start.
"These punkin races is all half-mile dashes, best two out of three.
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