in' '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 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. Tres Jolie--b. m. by Hamilton--dam Alberta. John C. Dillon,
Lexington, Kentucky. (Manders--blue and gold.)