Blister Jones
J >> John Taintor Foote >> Blister Jones[Frontispiece: "Micky's standin' in the track leanin' against
Hamilton."]
BLISTER JONES
By
JOHN TAINTOR FOOTE
ILLUSTRATED BY
JAY HAMBIDGE
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1913
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
I dedicate this, my first book, with awe and the deepest affection, to
Mulvaney--Mowgil--Kim, and all the wonderful rest of them.
J. T. F.
A certain magazine, that shall be nameless, I read every month. Not
because its pale contents, largely furnished by worthy ladies, contain
many red corpuscles, but because as a child I saw its numbers lying
upon the table in the "library," as much a part of that table as the
big vase lamp that glowed above it.
My father and mother read the magazine with much enjoyment, for,
doubtless, when its editor was young, the precious prose and poetry of
Araminta Perkins and her ilk satisfied him not at all.
Therefore, in memory of days that will never come again, I read this
old favorite; sometimes--I must confess it--with pain.
It chanced that a story about horses--aye, race horses--was approved
and sanctified by the august editor.
This story, when I found it sandwiched between _Jane Somebody's
Impressions Upon Seeing an Italian Hedge_, and three verses entitled
_Resurgam_, or something like that, I straightway bore to "Blister"
Jones, horse-trainer by profession and gentleman by instinct.
"What that guy don't know about a hoss would fill a book," was his
comment after I had read him the story.
I rather agreed with this opinion and so--here is the book.
THE THOROUGHBRED
Lead him away!--his day is done,
His satin coat and velvet eye
Are dimmed as moonlight in the sun
Is lost upon the sky.
Lead him away!--his rival stands
A calf of shiny gold;
His masters kneel with lifted hands
To this base thing and bold.
Lead him away!--far down the past,
Where sentiment has fled;
But, gentlemen, just at the last,
Drink deep!--_the thoroughbred_!
CONTENTS
I Blister
II Two Ringers
III Wanted--a Rainbow
IV Salvation
V A Tip in Time
VI Tres Jolie
VII Ole Man Sanford
VIII Class
IX Exit Butsy
X The Big Train
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Micky's standin' in the track leanin' against
Hamilton" . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
"Tres Jolie!" he shrieked.
"I see the Elefant stamp him."
BLISTER JONES
BLISTER
How my old-young friend "Blister" Jones acquired his remarkable
nickname, I learned one cloudless morning late in June.
Our chairs were tipped against number 84 in the curving line of
box-stalls at Latonia. Down the sweep of whitewashed stalls the upper
doors were yawning wide, and from many of these openings, velvet black
in the sunlight, sleek snaky heads protruded.
My head rested in the center of the lower door of 84. From time to
time a warm moist breath, accompanied by a gigantic sigh, would play
against the back of my neck; or my hat would be pushed a bit farther
over my eyes by a wrinkling muzzle--for Tambourine, gazing out into the
green of the center-field, felt a vague longing and wished to tell me
about it.
The track, a broad tawny ribbon with a lace-work edging of white fence,
was before us; the "upper-turn" with its striped five-eighths pole, not
fifty feet away. Some men came and set up the starting device at this
red and white pole, and I asked Blister to explain to me just what it
meant.
"Goin' to school two-year-olds at the barrier," he explained. And
presently--mincing, sidling, making futile leaps to get away, the boys
on their backs standing clear above them in the short stirrups--a band
of deer-like young thoroughbreds assembled, thirty feet or so from the
barrier.
Then there was trouble. Those sweet young things performed, with the
rapidity of thought, every lawless act known to the equine brain. They
reared. They plunged. They bucked. They spun. They surged together.
They scattered like startled quail. I heard squeals, and saw vicious
shiny hoofs lash out in every direction; and the dust spun a yellow
haze over it all.
"Those jockeys will be killed!" I gasped.
"Jockeys!" exclaimed Blister contemptuously. "Them ain't
jockeys--they're exercise-boys. Do you think a jock would school a
two-year-old?"
A man, who Blister said was a trainer, stood on the fence and acted as
starter. Language came from this person in volcanic blasts, and the
seething mass, where infant education was brewing, boiled and boiled
again.
"That bay filly's a nice-lookin' trick, Four Eyes!" said Blister,
pointing out a two-year-old standing somewhat apart from the rest.
"She's by Hamilton 'n' her dam's Alberta, by Seminole."
The bay filly, I soon observed, had more than beauty--she was so
obviously the outcome of a splendid and selected ancestry. Even her
manners were aristocratic. She faced the barrier with quiet dignity
and took no part in the whirling riot except to move disdainfully aside
when it threatened to engulf her. I turned to Blister and found him
gazing at the filly with a far-away look in his eyes.
"Ole Alberta was a grand mare," he said presently. "I see her get away
last in the Crescent City Derby 'n' be ten len'ths back at the quarter.
But she come from nowhere, collared ole Stonebrook in the stretch,
looked him in the eye the last eighth 'n' outgamed him at the wire.
She has a hundred 'n' thirty pounds up at that.
"Ole Alberta dies when she has this filly," he went on after a pause.
"Judge Dillon, over near Lexington, owned her, 'n' Mrs. Dillon brings
the filly up on the bottle. See how nice that filly stands? Handled
every day since she was foaled, 'n' never had a cross word. Sugar
every mawnin' from Mrs. Dillon. That's way to learn a colt somethin'."
At last the colts were formed into a disorderly line.
"Now, boys, you've got a chance--come on with 'em!" bellowed the
starter. "Not too fast . . ." he cautioned. "Awl-r-r-right . . . let
'em go-o-!"
They were off like rockets as the barrier shot up, and the bay filly
flashed into the lead. Her slender legs seemed to bear her as though
on the breast of the wind. She did not run--she floated--yet the gap
between herself and her struggling schoolmates grew ever wider.
"Oh, you Alberta!" breathed Blister. Then his tone changed. "Most of
these wise Ikes talk about the sire of a colt, but I'll take a good dam
all the time for mine!"
Standing on my chair, I watched the colts finish their run, the filly
well in front.
"She's a wonder!" I exclaimed, resuming my seat.
"She acts like she'll deliver the goods," Blister conceded. "She's got
a lot of step, but it takes more'n that 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 at the bowed tendon.
"'Anybody that'll lead this hoss off the track, gets him 'n' a month's
feed,' he says.
"Before you could spit I has that bird by the head. His swipe ain't
goin' to let go of him, but Cal says: 'Turn him loose, boy!' 'N' I'm
on my way with the bird.
"That's the first one I ever owns. Jameson loans me a stall fur him.
That night a ginnie comes over from Cal's barn with two bags of oats in
a wheelbarrow.
"A newspaper guy finds out about the deal, 'n' writes it up so
everybody is hep to me playin' owner. One day I see the starter point
me out to Colonel King, who's the main squeeze in the judge's stand,
'n' they both laugh.
"I've got all winter before we has to ship, 'n' believe me I sweat some
over this bird. I done everythin' to that tendon, except make a new
one. In a month I has it in such shape he don't limp, 'n' I begins to
stick mile gallops 'n' short breezers into him. He has to wear a stiff
bandage on the dinky leg, 'n' I puts one on the left-fore, too--it
looks better.
"It ain't so long till I has this bird cherry ripe. He'll take a-holt
awful strong right at the end of a stiff mile. One day I turns him
loose, fur three-eighths, 'n' he runs it so fast he makes me dizzy.
"I know he's good, but I wants to know _how_ good, before I pays
entrance on him. I don't want the clockers to get wise to him, neither!
"Joe Nickel's the star jock that year. I've seen many a good boy on a
hoss, but I think Joe's the best judge of pace I ever see. One day
he's comin' from the weighin'-room, still in his silks. His valet's
with him carryin' the saddle. I steps up 'n' says:
"'Kin I see you private a minute, Joe?'
"'Sure thing, kid,' he says. 'N' the valet skidoos.
"'Joe,' I says, 'I've got a bird that's right. I don't know just how
good he is, but he's awful good. I want to get wise to him before I
crowds my dough on to the 'Sociation. Will you give him a work?'
"It takes an awful nerve to ask a jock like Nickel to work a hoss out,
but he's the only one can judge pace good enough to put me wise, 'n'
I'm desperate.
"'It's that Davis cripple, ain't it?' he asks.
"'That's him,' I says.
"He studies a minute, lookin' steady at me.
"'I'm your huckleberry,' he says at last. 'When do you want me?'
"'Just as she gets light to-morrow mawnin',' I says quick, fur I hasn't
believed he'd come through, 'n' I wants to stick the gaff into him
'fore he changes his mind.
"He give a sigh. I knowed he was no early riser.
"'All right,' he says. 'Where'll you be?'
"'At the half-mile post,' I says. 'I'll have him warmed up fur you.'
"'All right,' he says again--'n' that night I don't sleep none.
"When it begins to get a little gray next mawnin' I takes the bird out
'n' gallops him a slow mile with a stiff breezer at the end. But
durin' the night I gives up thinkin' Joe'll be there, 'n' I nearly
falls off when I comes past the half-mile post, 'n' he's standin' by
the fence in a classy overcoat 'n' kid gloves.
"He takes off his overcoat, 'n' comes up when I gets down,'n' gives a
look at the saddle.
"'I can't ride nothin' on that thing,' he says. 'Slip over to the
jocks' room 'n' get mine. It's on number three peg--here's the key.'
"It's gettin' light fast 'n' I'm afraid of the clockers.
"'The sharp-shooters'll be out in a minute,' I says.
"'I can't help it,' says Joe. 'I wouldn't ride a bull on that saddle!'
"I see there's no use to argue, so I beats it across the center-field,
cops the saddle 'n' comes back. I run all the way, but it's gettin'
awful light.
"'Send him a mile in forty-five 'n' see what he's got left,' I says, as
I throws Joe up.
"'Right in the notch--if he's got the step,' he says.
"I click Jameson's clock on them, as they went away--Joe whisperin' in
the bird's ear. The back-stretch was the stretch, startin' from the
half. I seen the bird's mouth wide open as they come home, 'n' Joe has
double wraps on him. 'He won't beat fifty under that pull!' I says to
myself. But when I stops the clock at the finish it was at
forty-four-'n'-three-quarters. Joe ain't got a clock to go by
neither--that's judgin' pace!--take it from me!
"'He's diseased with speed,' says Joe, when he gets down. 'He can do
thirty-eight sure--just look at my hands!'
"I does a dance a-bowin' to the bird, 'n' Joe stands there laughin' at
me, squeezin' the blood back into his mitts.
"We leads the hoss to the gate, 'n' there's a booky's clocker named
Izzy Goldberg.
"'You an exercise-boy now?' he asks Joe.
"'Not yet,' says Joe. 'Mu cousin here owns this trick, 'n' I'm givin'
him a work.'
"'Up kind-a early, ain't you? Say! He's good, ain't he, Joe?' says
Izzy; 'n' looks at the bird close.
"'Naw, he's a mutt,' says Joe.
"'What's he doin' with his mouth open at the end of that mile?' Izzy
says, 'n' laughs.
"'He only runs it in fifty,' says Joe, careless. 'I takes hold of him
'cause he's bad in front, 'n' he's likely to do a flop when he gets
tired. So long, Bud!' Joe says to me, 'n' I takes the bird to the barn.
"I'm not thinkin' Izzy ain't wise. It's a cinch Joe don't stall him.
Every booky would hear about that work-out by noon. Sure enough the
_Item's_ pink sheet has this among the tips the next day:
"'Count Noble'--that was the bird's name--'a mile in forty-four.
Pulled to a walk at the end. Bet the works on him; his first time out,
boys!'
"That was on a Saturday. On Monday I enters the bird among a bunch of
dogs to start in a five furlong sprint Thursday. I'm savin' every
soomarkee I gets my hands on 'n' I pays the entrance to the secretary
like it's a mere bag of shells. Joe Nickel can't ride fur me--he's
under contract. I meets him the day before my race.
"'You're levelin' with your hoss, ain't you?' he says. 'I'll send my
valet in with you, 'n' after you get yours on, he'll bet two hundred
fur me.'
"'Nothin' doin', Joe!' I says. 'Stay away from it. I'll tell you when
I gets ready to level. You can't bet them bookies nothin'--they're
wise to him.'
"'Look-a-here, Bud!' says Joe. 'That bird'll cake-walk among them
crabs. No jock can make him lose, 'n' not get ruled off.'
"'Leave that to me,' I says.
"Just as I figgers--my hoss opens up eight-to-five in the books.
"I gives him all the water he'll drink afore he goes to the post, 'n' I
has bandages on every leg. The paddock judge looks at them bandages,
but he knows the bird's a cripple, 'n' he don't feel 'em.
"'Them's to hold his legs on, ain't they?' he says, 'n' grins.
"'Surest thing you know,' I says. But I feels some easier when he's on
his way--_there's seven pounds of lead in each of them bandages_.
"I don't want the bird whipped when he ain't got a chance.
"'This hoss backs up if you use the bat on him,' I says to the jock, as
he's tyin' his reins.
"'He backs up anyway, I guess,' he says, as the parade starts.
"The bird gets away good, but I'd overdone the lead in his socks. He
finished a nasty last--thirty len'ths back.
"'Roll over, kid!' says the jock, when I go up to slip him his fee.
'Not fur ridin' that hippo. It 'ud be buglary--he couldn't beat a
piano!'
"I meets Colonel King comin' out of the judge's stand that evenin'.
"'An owner's life has its trials and tribulations--eh, my boy?' he says.
"'Yes, sir!' I says. That's the first time Colonel King ever speaks to
me, 'n' I swells up like a toad. 'I'm gettin' to be all the gravy
'round here,' I says to myself.
"Two days after this they puts an overnight mile run fur maidens on the
card, 'n' I slips the bird into it. I knowed it was takin' a chance so
soon after his bad race, but it looks so soft I can't stay 'way from
it. I goes to Cal Davis, 'n' tells him to put a bet down.
"'Oh, ho!' he says. 'Lendin' me a helpin' hand, are you?' Then I
tells him about Nickel.
"'Did Joe Nickel work him out for you?' he says. 'The best is good
enough fur you, ain't it? I'll see Joe, 'n' if it looks good to him
I'll take a shot at it. Much obliged to you.'
"'Don't never mention it,' I says.
"'How do you mean that?' he says, grinnin'.
"'Both ways,' says I.
"The mawnin' of the race, I'm givin' the bird's bad leg a steamin',
when a black swipe named Duckfoot Johnson tells me I'm wanted on the
phone over to the secretary's office, 'n' I gets Duckfoot to go on
steamin' the leg while I'm gone.
"It's a feed man on the phone, wantin' to know when he gets sixteen
bucks I owe him.
"'The bird'll bring home your coin at four o'clock this afternoon,' I
tells him.
"'Well, that's lucky,' he says. 'I thought it was throwed to the
birds, 'n' I didn't figure they'd bring it home again.'
"When I gets back there's a crap game goin' on in front of the stall,
'n' Duckfoot's shootin'. There's a hot towel on the bird's leg, 'n'
it's been there too long. I takes it off 'n' feel where small blisters
has begun to raise under the hair--a little more 'n' it 'ud been clear
to the bone. I cusses Duckfoot good, 'n' rubs vaseline into the leg."
I interrupted Blister long enough to inquire:
"Don't they blister horses sometimes to cure them of lameness?"
"Sure," he replied. "But a hoss don't work none fur quite a spell
afterwards. A blister, to do any good, fixes him so he can't hardly
raise his leg fur two weeks.
"Well," he went on, "the race fur maidens was the last thing on the
card. I'm in the betting-ring when they chalks up the first odds, 'n'
my hoss opens at twenty-five-to-one. The two entrance moneys have
about cleaned me. I'm only twenty green men strong. I peels off ten
of 'em 'n' shoved up to a booky.
"'On the nose fur that one,' I says, pointin' to the bird's name.
"'Quit your kiddin',' he says. 'What 'ud you do with all that money?
This fur yours.' 'N' he rubs to twelve-to-one.
"'Ain't you the liberal gink?' I says, as he hands me the ticket.
"'I starts fur the next book, but say!--the odds is just meltin' away.
Joe's 'n' Cal's dough is comin' down the line, 'n' the gazabos,
thinkin' it's wise money, trails. By post-time the bird's a
one-to-three shot.
"I've give the mount to Sweeney, 'n' like a nut I puts him hep to the
bird, 'n' he tells his valet to bet a hundred fur him. The bird has on
socks again, but this time they're empty, 'n' the race was a joke. He
breaks fifth at the get-away, but he just mows them dogs down. Sweeney
keeps thinkin' about that hundred, I guess, 'cause he rode the bird all
the way, 'n' finished a million len'ths in front.
"I cashes my ticket, 'n' starts fur the barn to sleep with that bird,
when here comes Joe Nickel.
"'He run a nice race,' he says, grinnin', 'n' hands me six hundred
bucks.
"What's this fur?' I says. 'You better be careful . . . I got a weak
heart.'
"'I win twelve hundred to the race,' he says. ''N' we splits it two
ways.'
"'Nothin' doin',' I says, 'n' tries to hand him back the wad.
"'Go awn!' he says, 'I'll give you a soak in the ear. I bet that money
fur you, kiddo.'
"I looks at the roll 'n' gets wobbly in the knees. I never see so much
kale before--not at one time. Just then we hears the announcer sing
out through a megaphone:
"'The o-o-owner of Count Nobul-l-l-l is wanted in the judge's stand!'
"'Oy, oy!' says Joe. 'You'll need that kale--you're goin' to lose your
happy home. It's Katy bar the door fur yours, Bud!'
"'Don't worry--watch me tell it to 'em,' I says to Joe, as I stuffs the
roll 'n' starts fur the stand. I was feelin' purty good.
"'Wait a minute,' says Joe, runnin' after me. 'You can't tell them
people nothin'. You ain't wise to that bunch yet. Bud--why, they'll
kid you silly before they hand it to you, 'n' then change the subject
to somethin' interestin', like where to get pompono cooked to suit 'em.
I've been up against it,' he says, ''n' I'm tellin' you right. Just
keep stallin' around when you get in the stand, 'n' act like you don't
know the war's over.'
"'Furget it,' I says. 'I'll show those big stiffs where to head in.
I'll hypnotize the old owls. I'll give 'em a song 'n' dance that's
right!'
"As I goes up the steps I see the judges settin' in their chairs, 'n' I
takes off my hat. Colonel King ain't settin', he's standin' up with
his hands in his pockets. Somehow, when I sees _him_ I begins to
wilt--he looks so clean. He's got a white mustache, 'n' his face is
kind-a brown 'n' pink. He looks at me a minute out of them blue eyes
of his.
"'Are you the owner of Count Noble, Mr.--er--?'
"'Jones, sir,' I says.
"'Jones?' says the colonel.
"'Yes, sir,' I says.
"'Mr. Jones,' says the colonel, 'how do you account for the fact that
on Thursday Count Noble performs disgracefully, and on Saturday runs
like a stake horse? Have the days of the week anything to do with it?'
"I never says nothin'. I just stands there lookin' at him, foolin'
with my hat.
"'This is hell," I thinks.
"'The judges are interested in this phenomenon, Mr. Jones, and we have
sent for you, thinking perhaps you can throw a little light on the
matter,' says the colonel, 'n' waits fur me again.
"'Come on . . . get busy!' I says to myself. 'You can kid along with a
bunch of bums, 'n' it sounds good--don't get cold feet the first time
some class opens his bazoo at you!' But I can't make a noise like a
word, on a bet.
"'The judges, upon looking over the betting sheets of the two races in
which your horse appeared, find them quite interesting,' says the
colonel. 'The odds were short in the race he did _not_ win; they
remained unchanged--in fact, rose--since only a small amount was
wagered on his chances. On the other hand, these facts are reversed in
to-day's race, which he _won_. It seems possible that you and your
friends who were pessimists on Thursday became optimists today, and
benefited by the change. Have you done so?'
"I see I has to get some sort-a language out of me.
"'He was a better hoss to-day--that's all I knows about it,' I says.
"'The _first_ part of your statement seems well within the facts,' says
the colonel. 'He was, apparently, a much better horse to-day. But
these gentlemen and myself, having the welfare of the American
thoroughbred at heart, would be glad to learn by what method he was so
greatly improved.'
"I don't know why I ever does it, but it comes to me how Duckfoot
leaves the towel on the bird's leg, 'n' I don't stop to think.
"'I blistered him,' I says.
"'You--_what_?' says the colonel. I'd have give up the roll quick,
sooner'n spit it out again, but I'm up against it.
"'I blisters him', I says.
"The colonel's face gets red. His eyes bung out 'n' he turns 'round
'n' starts to cough 'n' make noises. The rest of them judges does the
same. They holds on to each other 'n' does it. I know they're givin'
me the laugh fur that fierce break I makes.
"'You're outclassed, kid!' I says to myself. 'They'll tie a can to
you, sure. The gate fur yours!'
"Just then Colonel King turns round, 'n' I see I can't look at him no
more. I looks at my hat, waitin' fur him to say I'm ruled off. I've
got a lump in my throat, 'n' I think it's a bunch of bright
conversation stuck there. But just then a chunk of water rolls out of
my eye, 'n' hits my hat--pow! It looks bigger'n Lake Erie, 'n' 'fore I
kin jerk the hat away--pow!--comes another one. I knows the colonel
sees 'em, 'n' I hopes I croak.
"'Ahem--', he says.
"'Now I get mine!' I says to myself.
"'Mr. Jones,' says the colonel, 'n' his voice is kind-a cheerful. 'The
judges will accept your explanation. You may go if you wish.'"
Just as I'm goin' down the steps the colonel stops me.
"'I have a piece of advice for you, Mr. Jones,' he says. His voice
ain't cheerful neither. It goes right into my gizzard. I turns and
looks at him. '_Keep that horse blistered from now on_!' says the
colonel.
"Some ginnies is in the weighin'-room under the stand, 'n' hears it
all. That's how I gets my name."
TWO RINGERS
"Hello, ole Four Eyes!" was the semi-affectionate greeting of Blister
Jones. "I ain't seed you lately."