to make a race hoss. We'll
know about _her_ when she goes the route, carryin' weight against
class."

The colts were now being led to their quarters by stable-boys. When
the boy leading the winner passed, he threw us a triumphant smile.

"I guess she's bad!" he opined.

"Some baby," Blister admitted. Then with disgust: "They've hung a
fierce name on her though."

"Ain't it the truth!" agreed the boy.

"What _is_ her name?" I asked, when the pair had gone by.

"They call her Trez Jolly," said Blister. "Now, ain't that a hell of a
name? I like a name you can kind-a warble." He had pronounced the
French phrase exactly as it is written, with an effort at the "J"
following the sibilant.

"Tres Jolie--it's French," I explained, and gave him the meaning and
proper pronunciation.

"Traysyolee!" he repeated after me. "Say, I'm a rube right.
Tra-aysyole-e in the stretch byano-o-se!" he intoned with gusto. "You
can warble that!" he exclaimed.

"I don't think much of Blister--for beauty," I said. "Of course, that
isn't your real name."

"No; I had another once," he replied evasively. "But I never hears it
much. The old woman calls me 'thatdambrat,' 'n' the old man the same,
only more so. I gets Blister handed to me by the bunch one winter at
the New Awlin' meetin'."

"How?" I inquired.

"Wait till I get the makin's 'n' I'll tell you," he said, as he got up
and entered a stall.

"One winter I'm swipin' fur Jameson," he began, when he returned with
tobacco and papers. "We ships to New Awlins early that fall. We have
twelve dogs--half of 'em hop-heads 'n' the other half dinks.

"In them days I ain't much bigger 'n a peanut, but I sure thinks I'm a
clever guy. I figger they ain't a gazabo on the track can hand it to
me.

"One mawnin' there's a bunch of us ginnies settin' on the fence at the
wire, watchin' the work-outs. Some trainers 'n' owners is standin' on
the track rag-chewin'.

"A bird owned by Cal Davis is finishin' a mile-'n'-a-quarter, under
wraps, in scan'lous fast time. Cal is standin' at the finish with his
clock in his hand lookin' real contented. All of a sudden the bird
makes a stagger, goes to his knees 'n' chucks the boy over his head.
His swipe runs out 'n' grabs the bird 'n' leads him in a-limpin'.

"Say! That bird's right-front tendon is bowed like a barrel stave!

"This Cal Davis is a big owner. He's got all kinds of kale--'n' he
don't fool with dinks. He gives one look