Blister Jones Part 35

Blister allowed the saddle girth he was mending to lie unnoticed across his knees as the delegates by twos and threes straggled past.

Each female member of the party carried a round paper fan with a cane handle, and talked unceasingly. These streams of conversation were entirely regardless of one another. It was as though many brooks babbled onward side by side, but never joined. One fragment that reached us, I preserved.

"An' I sez to the doctor when he come, sez I, 'Doctor, I ain't held a bite on my stummick these three livelong days!'" This was delivered by a buxom dame, fanning vigorously the meanwhile, and was noteworthy since the lady was closely followed by a little man whose frailty suggested dissolution, and who bore a large lunch box under one arm and a heavy child upon the other.

The men appeared somewhat interested in the pampered nervous-looking thoroughbreds, but made few comments. As compared to their women folk they seemed more silent than the very tomb itself.

Long after the grangers had drifted out of our sight, Blister's thoughts seemed devoted to them. Several times he chuckled to himself.

"Every time I see a bunch of rubes," he said at last, "it puts me in mind of Butsy Trimble 'n' the new stalls at Lake Minnehaha Park."

"Lake Minnehaha Park," I repeated. "I never heard of such a place."

"It's up at Mount Clinton," Blister explained. "It's Ohio's beauty spot."

"Get out!" I scoffed.

"Fact!" said Blister. "It says so right over the gates."

"Tell me about it," I demanded.

"This ain't been so long ago," said Blister. "The meetin' here at Latonia is about over. Ole Whiskers has put the game on the fritz in New York, so everybody's studyin' where to s.h.i.+p when get-away day comes, 'n' the whole bunch is sore as bears--you can't get a pleasant word from n.o.body.

"All I got in my string is some two-year-olds of Judge Dillon's. They go back to the farm when the meetin' closes, so I ain't worried none--not about where to s.h.i.+p.

"One night me 'n' Peewee Simpson is playin' pitch on a bale of hay with a lantern. Butsy Trimble is settin' beside the bale readin' a hoss paper.

"'Gimme high, jack, game--' says Peewee, after a hand.

"'I'll give you a poke in the nose!' I says. 'What you got fur game?'

"'I s'pose you want to count fur game--don't you?' says Peewee. 'I'll give it to you sooner'n argue with you.'

"'You're right, you'll give it to me,' I says.

"'Well, I said I'd give it to you, didn't I?' says Peewee. 'You'd rather argue'n eat, wouldn't you?'

"'All that's wrong with you,' I says, 'is you're sore 'cause you can't hog game!'

"Peewee lays down his cards.

"'Now, look a here, you freckle-faced shrimp!' he says. 'Get off this bale of hay--it'll _poison_ a hoss if _you_ set on it much longer!'

"'Whose bale of hay do you think this is?' I says. 'You tryin' to hog _it_ like you does game?'

"'Gimme my lantern 'n' I'll be on my way,' says Peewee.

"'I puts the oil in that lantern,' I says, ''n' she sets right where she is till she makes her last flicker.'

"'Cut it! Cut it!' says Butsy, spreadin' out his hoss paper. 'Act like you has some sense, 'n' I puts you hep to a hot scheme I gets out of this paper--us three can pull it off to a finis.h.!.+'

"'I don't want in on no scheme with that lantern s.n.a.t.c.her!' says Peewee then to me.

"'If you don't age some,' I says to Peewee, 'nursie'll come around here, 'n' put a nice fresh panty-waist on you!'

"Then Butsy goes ahead 'n' tells us the frame-up. He shows us an ad in his paper askin' fur entries to race over the Ohio Short s.h.i.+p Circuit.

This circuit is a bunch of race meets that's held on the bull rings at county fairs up through the state. They're trottin' races mostly, but they give one runnin' race at a different town each week.

"'Now,' says Butsy, 'I'm born 'n' raised in Mount Clinton, Ohio. I sees the race meet there frequent 'n' she's a peach. You can have a hoss lay down 'n' go to sleep on the track if you don't want him to win 'n' then tell the judges he's got spring fever. Everything goes except murder. We'll take that black stud of mine 'n' Peewee's bay geldin'

'n' hit this punkin circuit. We can win a purse each week fur travelin' expenses, 'n' what we cops on the side is velvet.'

"'What do you want me fur?' I says.

"'Why,' says Butsy, 'at these county fairs there ain't no bookies.

They just bets from hand to hand. While me 'n' Peewee rides, you sashay out among the rubes 'n' get the coin down on whichever hoss we frames to win.'

"We sets there 'n' talks over the proposition most all night. Butsy says it's a cinch 'n' it ain't long till me 'n' Peewee figgers he's got it doped right.

"'Let's go against it, Blister,' Peewee says to me. 'What do you say, old pal?'

"'I'm there with bells on,' I says, 'n' that settles it. I s.h.i.+ps my colts to Judge Dillon, 'n' the next week we start.

"These punkin races is all half-mile dashes, best two out of three.

Peewee's geldin' is a distance hoss--he don't get goin' good under a mile. In a bull-ring sprint he ain't got a chance with this black stud of Butsy's.

"Our game is to have Butsy turn his dash-hound loose the first heat.

Then I ambulates out among the rubes 'n' acts like I'm willing to bet on the bay geldin'. If I finds a live one, Butsy takes his hoss up in his lap the last two trips 'n' Peewee comes on 'n' grabs the gravy.

"We figger the rubes'll eat it up after seein' that nice-lookin' black stud romp away with the first heat. But right there the dope falls down--the rubes ain't as dead as they look.

"In the first town we strike I eases up to a tall Jasper after the black hoss has grabbed the opener on the bit.

"'Say, pardner,' I says, 'do you ever bet a piece of money on a race?'

"This Jasper is just a Adam's apple surrounded by arms 'n' legs.

"'Well, I should say as much,' he says. 'But most ginrally they wan't n.o.body bet with me. Up in Liberty Towns.h.i.+p the boys call me Lucky Andy.'

"'It's a crime to do this!' I says to myself. 'I'll make a little bet with you, pardner,' I says out loud. 'Not much though--you're too lucky!'

"'How was ye calkewlatin' to bet?' says the Jasper.

"'This black hoss acted kind-a tired to me,' I says. 'I'll just bet you twenty bucks he don't win the race.'

"'You look like a smart little cuss,' he says. 'What's good enough fer you is good enough fer me.' He beats it over to where another rube is settin' in a buggy. 'Hi, Bill!' says my Jasper, 'I'll just bet ye fifty cents the black hawse dun't win the race--even if I do lose!'

"That's the way it goes right along--the rubes stay away from it. Once in a while I finds a mark but not often. We win a purse though in every town 'n' this just about pays expenses. We ain't makin' nothin'

much, but we ain't losin' nothin' neither. We're eatin' regular 'n'