"Hello, ole Four Eyes!" was the semi-affectionate greeting of Blister
Jones. "I ain't seed you lately."
I had found him in the blacksmith shop at Latonia, lazily observing the
smith's efforts to unite Fan Tan and a set of new-made, blue-black
racing-plates. I explained how a city editor had bowed my shoulders
with the labors of Hercules during the last week, and began to acquire
knowledge of the uncertainties connected with shoeing a young
thoroughbred.
A colored stable-boy stood at Fan Tan's wicked-looking head and
addressed in varied tone and temper a pair of flattened ears.
"Whoa! Baby-doll! Dat's ma honey--dat's ma petty chile-- . . . Whoa!
Yuh no-'coun' houn', yuh!" The first of the speech had been delivered
soothingly, as the smith succeeded in getting a reluctant hind leg into
his lap; the last was snorted out as the leg straightened suddenly and
catapulted him into a corner of the shop, where he sat down heavily
among some discarded horseshoes.
The smith arose, sweat and curses dripping from him.
"Chris!" said Blister, "it's a shame the way you treat that pore filly.
She comes into yer dirty joint like a little lady, fur to get a new
pair of shoes, 'n' you grabs her by the leg 'n' then cusses her when
she won't stand fur it."
Part of the curses were now directed at Blister.
"Come on, Four Eyes," he said. "This ain't no place fur a minister's
son."
"I'd like to stay and see the shoeing!" I protested, as he rose to go.
"What shoeing?" he asked incredulously. "You ain't meanin' a big
strong guy like Chris manhandlin' a pore little filly? Come awn--I
can't stand to see him abusin' her no more."
We wandered down to the big brown oval, and Blister, perching himself
on the top rail of the fence, took out his stop-watch, although there
were no horses on the track.
"What are you going to do with that?" I asked.
"Got to do it," he grinned. "If I was to set on a track fence without
ma clock in my mitt, I'd get so nur-r-vous! Purty soon I'd be as
fidgity as that filly back there. Feelin' this ole click-click kind-a
soothes my fevered brow."
In a silence that followed I watched a whipped-cream cloud adrift on
the deepest of deep blue skies.
"Hi, hum!" said Blister presently, and extending his arms in a pretense
of stretching, he shoved me off the fence. "You're welcome," he said
to my protests, and added: "There's a nice matched pair."
A boy, leading a horse, was emerging from the mouth of a stall.
The contrast between them was startling--never had I seen a horse with
so much elegant apparel; rarely had I seen a boy with so little. The
boy, followed by the horse, began to walk a slow circle not far from
where we sat. Suddenly the boy addressed Blister.
"Say, loan me the makin's, will you, pal?" he drawled.
From his hip pocket Blister produced some tobacco in a stained muslin
bag and a wad of crumpled cigarette papers. These he tossed toward the
boy.
"Yours trooly," muttered that worthy, as he picked up the "makin's".
"Heard the news about Hicky Rogers?" he asked, while he rolled a
cigarette.
"Nothin', except he's a crooked little snipe," Blister answered.
"Huh! that ain't news," said the boy. "They've ruled him off--that's
what I mean."
"That don't surprise me none," Blister stated. "He's been gettin' too
smart around here fur quite a while. It'll be a good riddance."
"Were you ever ruled off the track?" I asked Blister, as the boy,
exhaling clouds of cigarette smoke, returned to the slow walking of his
horse. He studied in silence a moment.
"Yep--once," he replied. "I got mine at New Awlins fur ringin' a hoss.
That little ole town has got my goat."
"When was this?" I asked.'
"The year I first starts conditionin' hosses," he answered.
I had noticed that dates totally eluded Blister. A past occurrence as
far as its relation to time was concerned, he always established by a
contemporary event of the turf. Pressed as to when a thing had taken
place he would say, "The year Salvation cops all the colt stakes," or
"The fall Whisk-broom wins the Brooklyn Handicap." This had interested
me and I now tried to get something more definite from him. He
answered my questions vaguely.
"Say, if you're lookin' fur that kind of info," he said at last, "get
the almanac or the byciclopedia. These year things slide by so easy I
don't get a good pike at one, 'fore another is not more'n a len'th
back, 'n' comin' fast."