"Neither can _they_!" Blister's hand swept the two-mile circle of
stalls that held somewhere within their big curve--the enemy.
The boy at the mare's head laughed joyously.
"They ain't got a chance!" he gloated.
"All right, Chick," said Blister. "Put her up! Hold on!" he corrected
suddenly. "Here's the boss!" And I became aware of a throbbing motor
behind me. So likewise did Très Jolie.
"Whoa, Jane! Whoa, darling; it's mammy!" came in liquid tones from the
motor.
The rearing thoroughbred descended to earth with slim inquiring ears
thrown forward, and I remembered that Blister had described Mrs.
Dillon's voice as "good to listen at."
"Look, Virginia, she knows me!" the velvet voice exclaimed.
Another voice, rather heavy for a woman, but with a fascinating drawl
in it, answered:
"Perhaps she fancies you have a milk bottle with you. Isn't this the
one you and Uncle Jake raised on a bottle?"
"Yass'm, yass, Miss Vahginia, dat's her! Dat's ma Honey-bird!" came in
excited tones from an ancient negro, who alighted stiffly from the
motor and peered in our direction. As they approached, he held Mrs.
Dillon by the sleeve, and I realized that for Uncle Jake the sun would
never shine again.
Judge Dillon, a big-boned silent man, I had met. And after the shower
of questions poured upon Blister had abated, and the mare had been
gentled, petted and given a lump of sugar with a final hug, he
presented me to his wife.
"My cousin, Miss Goodloe," said Mrs. Dillon, and I sensed a mass of
tawny hair under the motor veil and looked into a pair of blue eyes set
wide apart beneath a broad white brow. It was no time for details.
It developed that Miss Goodloe was from Tennessee, that she was
visiting the Dillons at Thistle Ridge near Lexington, and that she
liked a small book of verses of which I had been guilty. It further
developed that Mrs. Dillon had talked me over with an aunt of mine in
Cincinnati, that we were mutually devoted to Blister, and that he had
described me to her as "the most educated guy allowed loose." This
last I learned as Judge Dillon and Blister discussed the derby some
distance from us.
"I feel awed and diffident in the presence of such learning," said Miss
Goodloe almost sleepily. "Why did I neglect my opportunities at Dobbs
Ferry!"
"I would give a good deal to observe you when you felt diffident,
Virginia," said Mrs. Dillon, with a laugh like a silver bell. "Uncle
Jake!" she called, "we are going now."
"I have heard of Uncle Jake," I said, as the old man felt his way
toward us.
"Yes?" said Mrs. Dillon. "He insisted upon coming to _see_ the derby."
She dwelt ever so lightly upon the verb, and Uncle Jake caught it.
"No, Miss Sally," he explained, "dat ain' 'zackly what I mean. Hit's
like dis--I just am boun' foh to hyah all de folks shout glory when ma
Honey-bird comes home!"
"What if she ain't in front, Uncle Jake?" said Blister, helping the old
man into the motor.
"Don't you trifle with me, boy!" replied Uncle Jake severely.
Derby day dawned as fair as turquoise sky and radiant sun could make
it. I had slept badly. Until late the night before I had absorbed a
haze of cigar smoke and the talk in the hotel lobby. Despite Blister's
confidence I had become panicky as I listened. There had been so much
assurance about several grave, soft-spoken horsemen who had felt that
at the weight the favorite could not win.
"Nevah foh a moment, suh," one elderly well-preserved Kentuckian had
said, "will I deny the Dillon mare the right to be the public's choice.
But she has nevah met such a field of hosses as this, suh--and she
lacks the bone to carry top weight against them."
There had been many nods of approval at this statement, and I had gone
to the Dillon party for consolation. But when I reached their
apartments I had found the judge more silent than ever, and Mrs. Dillon
as nervous as myself. Only Miss Goodloe appeared as usual. Her drawl
was soothingly indolent. She seemed entirely oblivious of any
tenseness in the atmosphere, and I caught myself wondering what was
behind those lazy-lidded blue eyes.
Back in the lobby once more I had found it worse than ever--so many
were against the favorite. I had about decided that our hopes were
doomed, when a call boy summoned me to the desk with the statement,
"Gentleman to see you, sir."
There I had found Blister and I fairly hugged him as he explained that
he had dropped in on the way to his "joint," as he called his hotel.
"Listenin' to the knockers?" he asked, reading me at once. "Furget
it--them ole mint juleps is dead 'n' buried. You'll go dippy if you
fall fur that stuff."
"But the weight!" I gasped.
"Say, they've got you goin' right, ain't they?" Blister exclaimed.
"Now listen! _She can carry the grand-stand 'n' come home on the bit_!
Get that fixed in your nut, 'n' then hit the hay."
"Thanks, I believe I shall," I said, and I had followed his advice,
though it was long until sleep came to me.
But now as the blue-gray housetops of Louisville sparkled with tiny
points of light, and the window-panes swam with pink-gold flame, I
looked out over the still sleeping city and laughed aloud at my fears
of the night before.
"A perfect day," I thought. "The favorite will surely win, and Blister
and Uncle Jake and Mrs. Dillon will be made perfectly happy. A
beautiful day, and a fitting one in which to fix the name of Très Jolie
among the equine stars!"
"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 learnéd persons ever long for the _wilderness_, and the _bough_,
and--the other things?" Miss Goodloe asked innocently.
"Quite frequently," I assured 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 Très 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 passed, or were passed 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 Très
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 Très 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. Très 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. Très 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 Très 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 bluegrass 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:
1. Très Jolie--b. m. by Hamilton--dam Alberta. John C. Dillon,
Lexington, Kentucky. (Manders--blue and gold.)
"What sort of jockey is Manders?" I asked Blister.
"Good heady boy," was the reply.
"Virginia, oh, Virginia, isn't she a lamb?" gasped Mrs. Dillon.
"She's a stuck-up miss," said Miss Goodloe in an even tone, and I
almost hated her.
Number 2 I failed to see as they paraded past.
Number 3 was a gorgeous black, with eyes of fire, powerful in neck and
shoulders, and with a long driving hip. He was handsome as the devil
and awe-inspiring. Applause from the stands likewise greeted him,
though it was feeble to the howl that had met the favorite.
"There's the one we've got to beat," Blister stated.
"Good horse," said Judge Dillon quietly.
3. Rob Roy--bl. s. by Tempus Fugit--dam Marigold. Henry L. Whitley,
New York City. (Dawson--green and white.)
I read. I followed him with my eyes and wished him somewhere else. He
looked so overpowering--he and the millions behind him. . . .
At last, a quarter of a mile away, they halted in a gorgeous shifting
group. And the taut elastic webbing of the barrier that was to hold
them from their flight a little longer, was stretched before them.
They surged against it like a parti-colored wave, and then receding,
surged again, but always the narrow webbing held them back. I found
the blue and gold. It was almost without motion--it did not shift and
whirl with the rest.
"Ain't she the grand actor?" said Blister with delight. "The best
mannered thing at the barrier ever I saw."
Then for a moment I lost the colors that had held my gaze. They were
blotted out and crowded back by other colors. In that instant the wave
conquered. It grew larger and larger. It was coming like the wind.
But where was the blue and gold?
I was answered by a heaven-cleaving shout that changed in the same
breath to a despairing groan. It was as though a giant had been
stricken deep while roaring forth his battle-cry. The thousands had
seen what I had missed--their hopes in an instant were gone. In the
stillness that followed, a harsh whisper reached me.
"_She's left_! _She's left_!" Then an uncanny laugh. The rock had
broken.
The wave was greeted by silence. A red bay thundered in the lead.
Then came a demon, hard held, with open mouth, and number 3 shone from
his raven side. Followed a flying squadron all packed together, their
hoofs rolling like drums. And then came aching lengths, and my eyes
filled with tears and something gripped my heart and squeezed it as
Très Jolie, skimming like an eager swallow, fled past undaunted by that
hopeless gap.
"Whar my baby at?" asked Uncle Jake. He had heard the groan and the
silence, and fear was in his voice.
"Oh--Uncle Jake--" began Mrs. Dillon. "They--" her voice broke.
"Dey ain' left her at de post? Doan' tell me dat, Miss Sally!"
Mrs. Dillon nodded as though to eyes that saw. Uncle Jake seemed to
feel it.
"How fah back? How fah back?" he demanded.
"She ain't got a chance, Uncle Jake!" said Blister, and dropped his
head on his arm lying along the railing.
"How fah back?" insisted the old negro.
Blister raised his head and gazed.
"Twenty len'ths," he said, and dropped it again.
"Doan' you fret, Miss Sally," Uncle Jake encouraged. "She'll beat 'em
yet!"
"Not this time, old man," said Judge Dillon very gently. He was
tearing his program carefully into little pieces, with big shaking
hands. . . .
The horses were around the first turn, and the battle up the back
stretch had begun. The red bay was still leading.
"Mandarin in front!" said some one behind us. "Rob Roy second and
running easy--the rest nowhere!"
"Jes' you wait!" called Uncle Jake.
"You ole fool nigger!" came Blister's muffled voice.
Even at that distance I could have told which one was last. The same
effortless floating stride I had noticed long ago was hers as Très
Jolie, foot by foot, ate up the gap. At the far turn she caught the
stragglers and one by one she cut them down.
"Oh, gallant spirit!" I thought. "If they had given you but half a
chance!"
I lost her among a melee of horses, on the turn, as the leader swung
into the stretch. It was the same red bay, but now the boy on the
black horse moved his hands forward a little and his mount came easily
to the leader's side. There was a short struggle between them and the
bay fell back.
"Mandarin's done!" cried the voice behind us. "Rob Roy on the bit!"
"I might have known it!" I thought bitterly. "He looked it all along."
Then a gentle buzzing sprang up like a breeze. It was a whisper that
grew to a muttering, and then became a rumble and at last one delirious
roar. The giant had recovered, and his mighty cry brought me to my
feet, my heart in my throat--for "_Très Jolie_" he roared . . . and
coming! . . . coming!! . . . coming!!! . . . I saw the blue and gold!
A maniac rose among us and flung his fists above his head. He called
upon his gods--and then that magic name--"_Très Jolie_," he shrieked:
"_Oh, Baby Doll_!" It was Blister--and I marveled.
[Illustration: "Très Jolie!" he shrieked.]
I had seen him stand and lose his all without a sign of feeling. But
now he raved and cursed and prayed and plead with his "Girlie!"--his
"Baby Doll!", and with the last atom of her strength his sweetheart
answered the call.
She reached, heaven alone knows how, the flank of the flying black, and
inch by inch she crept along that flank until they struggled head to
head.
"Oh, you black dog!" howled Blister, wild triumph in his voice.
"You've got to beat a race hoss _now_!"
As though he heard, the black horse flattened to his work. Almost to
the end he held her there, eye meeting eye. The task was just beyond
him. Even as they shot under the wire, he faltered. But it was very
close, and the shrieking hysterical grand-stand grew still and waited.
I glanced at Blister. He was leaning forward, almost crouching, his
face ashen, his eyes on the number board.
Then slowly the numbers swung into view, and "_1, 3, 7,_" I read.
There was a roar like the falling of ten thousand forest trees. These
words flashed through my mind. "We'll know about _her_ when she goes
the route, carryin' weight against class." . . . . Yes, we knew about
_her_--now!
I saw Mrs. Dillon's lips move at Uncle Jake's ear. He raised his
sightless eyes to the sky, his head nodding. It was as though he
visioned paradise and found it good indeed.
I saw Blister's face turn from gray to red, from red to purple. The
tenseness went out of his body, and suddenly he was gone, fighting his
way through the crowd toward the steps.
I saw Judge Dillon's big arm gather in his trembling wife, and he held
her close while the heavens rocked.
These things I saw through a blur, and then I felt Miss Goodloe sway at
my side. She clutched at the railing, missed it and sank slowly into
her seat. I but glimpsed a white face in which the eyes had changed
from blue to violet, when it was covered by two slender gloved hands.
"Are you ill?" I called, as I bent above her.
She shook her head.
"It was too much," I barely heard.
I stood bewildered, and then my stupid mind cast out a soulless image
that it held and fixed the true one there.
"I rarely make this kind of a fool of myself," she said at last.
"That I can quite believe," I replied, smiling down at her. She
returned the smile with one that held a fine good comradeship, and we
seemed to have known each other long. . . .
A crowd had packed themselves before the stall. As we reached it
Blister appeared in the doorway.
"Get back! Get back!" he ordered, and pointing to the panting mare:
"Don't you think she's earned a right to breath?"
The crowd fell away, except one rather shabby little old man.
"No one living," said he, "appreciates what she has done moh than
myself, suh, but I desiah to lay ma hand on a real race mayah once moh
befoh I die!"
Blister's face softened.
"Come on in, Mr. Sanford," he invited. "Why _you_ win the derby once,
didn't you?"
"Thank you, suh. Yes, suh, many yeahs ago," said the little old man,
and removing his battered hat he entered the stall, his white head bare.
Mrs. Dillon's face as she, too, entered the stall was tear-wet and
alight with a great tenderness.
A boy dodged his way to where we stood. His face and the front of his
blue and gold jacket were encrusted with dirt.
"You shoe-maker!" was Blister's scornful greeting.
"Honest to Gawd it wasn't my fault, Judge," the boy piped, sniffling.
"Honest to Gawd it wasn't! That sour-headed bay stud of Henderson's
swung his ugly butt under the mare's nose, 'n' just as I'm takin' back
so the dog won't kick a leg off her, that mutt of a starter lets 'em
go!"
"All right, sonny," said the judge. "You rode a nice race when you did
get away."
"Much obliged, sir. I just wanted to tell you," said the boy, and he
disappeared in the crowd as Judge Dillon joined those in the stall.
I stayed outside watching the group about Très Jolie, and never had my
heart gone out to people more. Deeply I wished to keep them in my
life. . . I wondered if we would ever meet again. But pshaw!--I was
nothing to them. Well, I would go back to Cincinnati when they left in
the morning. . . .
"Can't we have you for a week at Thistle Ridge?" Mrs. Dillon stood
looking up at me.
"Why, that's very kind--" I stammered.
"The north pasture is a _wilderness_ this year, the _loaf of bread, the
jug of wine_ and the _bough_ are waiting. You can, of course, furnish
your own _verses_."
"The picture is almost perfect," I said, and glanced at Miss Goodloe.
"Virginia, dear--" prompted Mrs. Dillon.
"As a _thou_--I always strive to please," drawled that blue-eyed young
person. Oh, that I had been warned by her words!
Our purring flight to Louisville, when the day was done, became a
triumph that mocked the dead Caesars. Of this the old negro on the
front seat missed little. He was singing, softly singing. And leaning
forward I listened.
"Curry a mule an' curry a hoss,
Keep down trubbul wid de stable boss!"
sang Uncle Jake.