Blister Jones Part 25

"We read some of your poetry last night after you had gone," said Mrs.

Dillon, as we waited for the motor to take us to Churchill Downs. "I liked it, and I don't care for verse as a rule, except Omar. I dote on _The Rubaiyat_; don't you?"

"Yes, indeed," I replied. "I can't quite swallow his philosophy, but he puts it all so charmingly. Some of his pictures are most alluring."

"Do learned persons ever long for the _wilderness_, and the _bough_, and--the other things?" Miss Goodloe asked innocently.

"Quite frequently," I a.s.sured her.

She affected a sigh of relief.

"That's such a help," she said. "It makes them seem more like the rest of us."

A huge motor-car wheeled from the line at the curb and glided past us.

A man in the tonneau lifted his hat high above his head as he saw Judge Dillon.

"Oh, you Tres Jolie!" he called with a smile. "The best luck in the world to you, Judge!" It was an excessively rich New Yorker, who owned one of the horses about to run in the derby.

"Oh, you Rob Roy!" called back Judge Dillon, also raising his hat.

"The same to you, Henry!" And suddenly there was a tug at my nerves, for I realized that this was the _salut de combat_.

But Uncle Jake, his faith in his "Honey-bird" unshaken as the time drew near, rode in placid contentment on the front seat as we sped to the track. We pa.s.sed, or were pa.s.sed 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.

A roar came from the grand-stand across the center-field.

"They're off in the first race," said Blister. "Put the saddle on her, boys;" and when this was accomplished: "Bring her out--it's time to warm up."

I had witnessed Tres Jolie come forth once before and I drew well back, but it was Mrs. Dillon who led the thoroughbred from the stall. She was breathing wonderful words. Her voice was like the cooing of a dove. Tres Jolie appeared to listen.

"She don't handle like that fur us, does she, Chick?" said Blister.

"Nope," said the boy addressed. "I guess she's hypnotized."

"How do you do it?" I inquired of Mrs. Dillon as she led the mare to the track, the rest of us following.

"She's my precious lamb, and I'm her own mammy," was the lucid explanation.

"Now you know," said Blister to me. "Pete!" he called to a boy, approaching, "I want this mare galloped a slow mile. Breeze her the last eighth. Don't take hold of her any harder'n you have to. Try 'n'

_talk_ her back."

"I got you," said the boy, as Blister threw him up. Mrs. Dillon let go of the bridle. Tres Jolie stood straight on her hind legs, made three tremendous bounds, and was gone. We could see the boy fighting to get her under control, as she sped like a bullet down the track.

"I guess Pete ain't usin' the right langwige," said the boy called Chick, with a wide grin.

"Maybe she ain't listenin' good," added another boy.

"Cut out the joshin' 'n' get her blankets ready," said Blister with a frown.

"I think we'd better start," suggested Judge Dillon.

"Aren't you terribly excited?" I asked Miss Goodloe curiously, as she walked cool and composed by my side. My own heart was pounding.

"Of course," she drawled.

"This girl is made of stone," I thought.

The band was playing _Dixie_ as we climbed the steps of the grand-stand, and the thousands cheered until it was repeated. Hands were thrust at the Dillons from every side, and until we found our box, continued shouts of, "Oh, you Tres Jolie!" rose above the crash of the band.

I had witnessed many races in the past and been a part of many racing crowds but never one like this. These people were Kentuckians. The thoroughbred was part of their lives and their traditions. Through him many made their bread. Over the fairest of all their fair acres he ran, and save for their wives and children they loved him best of all.

Once each year for many years they had come from all parts of the smiling bluegra.s.s country to watch this struggle between the satin-coated lords of speed that determined which was king. This journey was like a pilgrimage, and worship was in their shining eyes, as tier on tier I scanned their eager faces.

And now three things happened. A bugle called, and called again. The crowd grew deathly still. And Mrs. Dillon, in a voice that reminded me of a frightened child, asked:

"Where is Blister?"

"He'll be here," said Judge Dillon, patting her hand. And even as a megaphone bellowed: "_We are now ready for the thirty-ninth renewal of the Kentucky Derby_!" Blister squeezed through the crowd to the door of the box.

He was a rock upon which we immediately leaned.

"Everything all right?" I asked.

"Fine as silk," he said cheerfully, dropping into a seat. "You'll see a race hoss run to-day! Here they come! She's in front!" And held to a proud sedateness by their tiny riders, the contenders in the derby filed through the paddock-gate.

At the head of these leashed falcons was a haughty, burnished, slender-legged beauty--the proudest of them all. Her neck was curving to the bit and she seemed to acknowledge with a gracious bow the roar of acclamation that greeted her. She bore the number 1 upon her satin side, and dropping my eyes to my program I read: