Blister Jones Part 30

"The start's bein' held up by the Tramp. He's sure puttin' on a show--the hop's got him as wild as a eagle. It's too far away fur the ole man to see good, so I don't put him hep it's his hoss that's cuttin' the didoes.

"Just then Chick comes up.

"'I hear you get a nice bet down on your hoss, Mr. Sanford,' he says.

'I sure hope he cops.'

"'Thank you, ma boy,' says ole man Sanford. 'I only placed a small wageh, but at vehy liberal odds. Ah shall profit materially should he win his race.'

"'If he gets away good he'll roll,' says Chick. 'There's no cla.s.s to that bunch, 'n' he's a bear with a shot in him. But he's a bad actor when he's hopped--look at the fancy stuff he's pullin' now!'

"'You are mistaken, ma boy,' says ole man Sanford. 'This hawss has had no stimulant _to-day_.'

"Like a nut I've furgot to tell the boys the ole man ain't on. I tries to give Chick the high sign, but he's watchin' the hosses, 'n' before I can get to him he belches up the glad news.

"'If _he_ ain't hopped one never was!' he says. 'We put a fierce shot in him. Look at him act if you don--'

"I kick his s.h.i.+n off right there, but it's too late, ole man Sanford gets pale as a rag.

"'How dare you--' he says, 'n' stops. 'But Ah shall prevent it!' he says, 'n' starts fur the judge's stand. He ain't got a chance--just then they get away, 'n' he turns back to me when he hears the crowd holler, 'They're off!'

"'Young man,' he says, pointin' at me, 'n' he's shakin' like he's cold.

'What have Ah evah done to you to merit such treatment at yoh hands?'

"I see there's no use to lie to him, so I gives it to him straight.

"'Mr. Sanford,' I says, 'the hoss can't win without it, 'n' I don't want to see you lose your money.'

"Ole man Sanford sort-a wilts. He seems to get smaller. I've never noticed how old he is till now. He stands a-lookin' at me like he never sees me before.

"The crowd begins to yell as the hosses. .h.i.t the stretch. The Tramp is out in front, 'n' he stays there all the way.

"The ole man never even looks towards the track.

"'He wins easy,' says Chick as they go under the wire, 'n' all you can hear is 'Trampfast! Trampfast!' but ole man Sanford still keeps a-starin' at me.

"'You want to cheer up, Mr. Sanford,' I says. 'You win a nice bet on him.'

"He pulls the tickets out of his pocket 'n' looks at 'em. They call fur sixteen hundred bucks.

"'As Ah have told you once befoh, young man,' he says, a-lookin' at the tickets. 'Ah can not blame you greatly, because you are paht of yoh times. This is the excuse Ah find foh you in thinking Ah would value money moh than the spohtsmans.h.i.+p of a gentleman. Yoh times are bad, young man!' he says. 'They have succeeded in staining the puhple and white at the vehy end. Ah would neveh have raced afteh to-day. It was a whim of an old man to see his colohs once moh among a field of hawses. Ah knew Ah was not of this day. Ah should have known bettah than to become a paht of it even foh a little time. Ah have learned ma lesson,' he says, lookin' up at me. 'But you have made it vehy bittah.'

"He looks down at the tickets again fur a minute. . . Then he tears 'em across three ways 'n' drops 'em on the ground."

CLa.s.s

"What do you like in the handicap?" I asked, looking up from the form sheet.

Blister reached for the paper.

"Indigo's the cla.s.s," he said, after a glance at the entries. "If they run to form, he'll cop."

"There you go again--with your _cla.s.s_!" I exclaimed. "You're always talking about cla.s.s. What does cla.s.s mean?"

"Long as you've been hangin' 'round the track 'n' not know what cla.s.s means!" Blister looked at me pityingly. "There's no _cla.s.s_ to that,"

he added, with a grin.

"Seriously now," I urged. "Explain it to me. Cla.s.s, as you call it, is beaten right along. Just the other day you said Exponent was the cla.s.s and should have won, but he didn't."

"He has the most left at that," said Blister. "He wins in three more jumps. You can't beat cla.s.s. It'll come back fur more."

"Molly S. beat him," I insisted.

"Yep, she beat him that one race," Blister admitted. "But how does she beat him? Do you notice the boy gets her away wingin' 'n' keeps her there all the trip? . . . Why? Because he knows she can't come from behind 'n' win. If the old hoss gets to her any place in the stretch she lays down to him sure. She ain't got the cla.s.s 'n' he has. She can win a race now 'n' then when things break right fur her, but the Exponent hoss'll win anyway--on three legs if he has to. He's got the cla.s.s."

"How can you get horses with cla.s.s?" I inquired. "By breeding?"

"If you want it you lay down big coin fur it," Blister answered. "It follows blood lines some, but not all the time. I've seed awful dogs bred clear to the clouds. Then again it'll show in a weanlin'. I've seed sucklin' colts with cla.s.s stickin' out all over 'em. Kids has it, too. It shows real young sometimes."

"How can a child show anything like that?" I remonstrated. "He has no opportunity. Cla.s.s, as I understand it, is deep-seated--part of the very fiber. It takes a big situation to bring it out. Where did you ever see a child display this quality?"

"I've seed it many a time in little dirty-faced swipes," Blister stated. "I've seed exercise-boys so full of cla.s.s they put the silks on 'em before they can bridle a hoss, 'n' they bawl like you've took away their apple when they lose their first race. You've heard of Hamilton?"

"I have been told he is the best sire in America," I replied, wondering where this question led.

"I won't say that," said Blister. "There's a lot of good hosses at stud in this land-of-the-free-when-you-pay-fur-it, but he's up there with the best of 'em. Did you know I owns him once myself?"

"Not the great Hamilton?" I protested.

"Yep, the great all-the-time, anyhow-'n'-any-place Hamilton," Blister a.s.sured me. "'N' speakin' of cla.s.s in kids 'n' colts, lemme tell you about it." He reached for his "makin's" and I waited while he rolled a cigarette, this process being a necessary prelude to a journey into his past.

"The year Seattle Sam goes down 'n' out," the words came in a cloud of cigarette smoke, "I'm at Saratoga. This Seattle is one of the big plungers, his nod's good with the bookies fur anything he wants to lay, 'n' he sure bets 'em to the sky. He owns a grand string of hosses, 'n'

when one of 'em's out to win, believe me, he carries the coin!"

"All the same they get him at last 'n' there ain't nothin' else talked about fur a couple of days when the word goes 'round that he's cleaned.

The bunch acts like somebody's dead. They whisper when they tell it.

It's got 'em dazed.

"In them days there's a little squirt called Micky that hangs around the track. He ain't got a regular job; he just picks up odd mounts on a work-out now 'n' then. He don't weigh eighty pounds, but he's fresher'n a bucket of paint. His right name's Vincent Mulligan, 'n'

his mother's a widow woman. I learns that 'cause the old lady sends a truant officer out to the track after him one day, 'n' the cop puts me wise after Micky has clumb through a stall window, 'n' give him the slip.

"'Why, you big truck hoss,' says Micky to the bull as he skidoos through the window, 'you couldn't catch a cold at the north pole in yer dirty unders.h.i.+rt!'

"'Why don't you go to school like you'd ought, Vincent?' I says to Micky, when he shows up the next day.

"'Aw, you go to h.e.l.l!' says Micky. 'Say, are you ever goin' to let me work one of yer dogs out in place of that smoke?' he says, pointin' at s...o...b..ll, my exercise-boy.