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 josh