Читать книгу Blister Jones - John Taintor Foote - Страница 8

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At our last meeting Blister had told me of a "ringing" in years gone by that had ended disastrously for him. And now as we idled in the big empty grand-stand a full hour before it would be electrified by the leaping phrase, "They're off!" I desired further reminiscences.

"Ringing a horse must be a risky business?" I ventured.

"Humph!" grunted Blister, evidently declining to comment on the obvious. Then he glanced at me with a dry whimsical smile. "I see that little ole pad stickin' out of your pocket," he said. "Ain't she full of race-hoss talk yet?"

"Always room for one more," I replied, frankly producing the note-book.

"Well, I guess I'm the goat," he said resignedly. "I had figured to sick you on to Peewee Simpson to-day, but he ain't around, so I'll spill some chatter about ringin' a hoss among the society bunch one time, 'n' then I'll buy a bucket of suds."

"I'll buy the beer," I stated with emphasis.

"All right—just so we get it—I'll be dryer'n a covered bridge," said Blister.

"This ringin' I mentions," he went on, "happens while I'm ruled off.

"At the get-away I've got a job with a Chicago buyer, who used to live in New York. This guy has a big ratty barn. He deals mostly in broken-down skates that he sells to pedlers 'n' cabmen. Once in a while he takes a flier in high-grade stuff, 'n' one day he buys a team of French coach hosses from a breedin' farm owned by a millionaire.

"Believe me they was a grand pair—seal brown, sixteen hands 'n' haired like babies. They fans their noses with their knees, when get's the word, 'n' after I sits behind 'em 'n' watches their hock-action fur a while I feels like apologizin' to 'em fur makin' 'em haul a bum like me.

"These dolls go East,' says the guy I works fur. 'They don't pull no pig-sticker in this burg. They'll be at the Garden so much they'll head fur Madison Square whenever they're taken out.'

"He ships the pair East 'n' sends me with 'em as caretaker. I deliver 'em to a swell sales company up-town in New York.

"This concern has some joint—take it from me—every floor is just bulgin' with hosses that's so classy they sends 'em to a manicure parlor 'stead of a blacksmith's shop.

"There's a big show-ring, with a balcony all 'round it, on the top floor. They take my pair up there 'n' hook 'em to a hot wagon painted yellow, 'n' the company's main squeeze, named Brown, comes up to see 'em act. I'm facin' the door just as a guy starts to lead a hoss into the show-ring. The pair swings by, this hoss shies back sudden 'n' I see him make a queer move with his off rear leg. Brown don't see it—he's got his back to the door.

"The guy leads the hoss up to us.

"'Here's that hunter I phoned you about, Mr. Brown,' he says. The hoss is a toppy trick—bright bay, short backed, good coupled 'n' 'll weigh eleven hundred strong. But he's got a knot on his near-fore that shows plain.

"'I thought you told me he was sound?' says Brown, lookin' at the knot.

"'What's the matter with you, Mr. Brown?' says the guy. 'That little thing don't bother him. Any eight-year-old hunter that knows the game is bound to be blemished in front.'

"'Can you tell an unsound one when you look at him?' Brown asks me.

"'I can smell a dink a mile off,' I says.

"'Here's an outside party,' says Brown; 'let's hear what he has to say. Feel that bump, young man!' he says to me.

"I runs my hand over the knot.

"'That don't hurt him,' I says. 'It's on the shin 'n' part of it's thick skin.'

"'There!' says the guy. 'Your own man's against you.'

"'He's not my man,' says Brown, lookin' at me disgusted.

"'This ain't my funeral,' I says to Brown. ''N' I ain't had a call to butt in. If you tells me to butt—I butts.'

"'Go to it,' says Brown.

"'Do you throw a crutch in with this one?' I says to the guy.

"'What does he need a crutch for?' he says, givin' me a sour look.

"I takes the hoss by the head, backs him real sudden, 'n' he lifts the off-rear high 'n' stiff.

"'He's a stringer,' I says.

"Brown gives the guy the laugh.

"'You might get thirty dollars from a Jew pedler for him,' he says. 'He'll make a high-class hunter—for paper, rags and old iron.'

"'How did you know that horse was string-halted so quick?' says Brown to me when the guy has gone.

"'I told you I can smell a dink,' I says. But I don't tell him what I sees at the door.

"'I think we could use you and your nose around here,' he says. 'Are you stuck on Chicago?'

"'Me fur this joint,' I says, lookin' 'round. 'Do I have to get my hair waved more 'n' twict a week?'

"'We'll waive that in your case,' he says, laughin' at his bum joke.

"'Don't do that again,' I says. 'I've a notion to quit right here.'

"'I'd hate to lose an old employee like you—I'll have to be more careful,' he says—'n' I'm workin' fur Mr. Brown.

"About a week after this, I'm bringin' a hackney up to the showroom fur Brown to look at, when a young chap dressed like a shoffer stops me.

"'I wish to see Mr. Brown, my man,' he says. 'Can you tell me where he is?'

"No shofe can spring this 'my man' stuff on me, 'n' get away with it. But a blind kitten can see this guy's all the gravy. There's somethin' about him makes you think the best ain't near as good as he wants. I tells him to come along with me, 'n' when we gets up to the showroom he sticks a card at Brown.

"'Yes, indeed—Mr. Van Voast!' says Brown, when he squints at the card. 'You're almost the only member of your family I have been unable to serve. I believe I have read that you are devoted to the motor game.'

"'That's an indiscretion I hope to rectify—I want a hunter,' says the young chap.

"'Take that horse down and bring up Sally Waters,' says Brown to me.

"This Sally Waters is a chestnut mare that's kep' in a big stall where she gets the best light 'n' air in the buildin'. A lot of guys have looked at her, but the price is so fierce nobody takes her.

"'Is that the best you have?' says the young chap, when I gets back with her.

"'Yes, Mr. Van Voast,' says Brown. 'And she's as good as ever stood on four legs! She'll carry your weight nicely, too.'

"'Is she fast?' says the young chap.

"'After racing at ninety miles an hour, anything in horse-flesh would seem slow to you, I presume,' says Brown. 'But she is an extremely fast hunter, and very thorough at a fence.'

"'Do you know Ferguson's Macbeth?' says the young chap.

"'I ought to,' says Brown. 'We imported Macbeth and Mr. Ferguson bought him from me.'

"The young chap studies a minute.