The hot inky odors of a newspaper plant took me by the throat during my
progress in the whiny elevator to the third floor.
Before attacking the day's editorial I tried to decide whether it was
the nerve flicking clash of the linotypes, the pecking chatter of the
typewriters, or the jarring rumble of the big cylinder presses that was
taking the life out of my work. I was impartial in this, but gave it
up.
And then a letter was dropped on the desk before me, and I recognized
in the penciled address upon the envelope the unformed hand of Blister
Jones.
"Dear Friend," the letter began, and somehow the ache behind my eyes
died out as I read. 'I guess you are thinking me dead by this time on
account of not hearing from me sooner in answer to yours. Well, this
is to show you I am alive and kicking. I guess you have read how good
the mare is doing. She is a good mare, as good as her dam. I had some
mean luck with her at Nashville by her going lame for me, so she could
not start in the big stake, but she is O. K. now. I note what you said
about being sick. That is tough. Why don't you come to Louisville and
see the mare run in the derby. If you would only bet, I can give you a
steer that would put you right and pay all your expenses. Well, this
is all for the present.
"Resp.
"Blister Jones.
"P. S. Now, be sure to come as I want you to see the mare. She is sure
a good mare."
I laid the letter down with a sigh. The mare referred to was the now
mighty Très Jolie favorite for the Kentucky Derby. I had seen her once
when a two-year-old, and I remembered Blister's pride as he told me she
was to be placed in his hands by Judge Dillon.
Yes, I would be glad to see "the mare," and I longed for the free
sunlit world of which she was a part, as for a tonic. But this was, of
course, impossible. So long as hard undiscerning materialism demanded
editorials--editorials I must furnish.
"Damn such a pen!" I said aloud, at its first scratch.
"Quite right!" boomed a deep voice. A big gentle hand fell on my
shoulder and spun me away from the desk. "See here," the voice went on
gruffly, "you're back too soon. We can't afford to take chances with
_you_. Get out of this. The cashier'll fix you up. Don't let me see
you around here again till--we have better pens," and he was gone
before thanks were possible.
"I'm going to Churchill Downs to cover the derby for a Sunday special!"
I sang to the sporting editor as I passed his door.
"The _Review of Reviews_ might use it!" followed me down the hall, and
I chuckled as I headed for the cashier's desk.
"Well, well, well!" was Blister's greeting. "Look who's here! I seen
your ole specs shinin' in the sun clear down the line!"