Chapter 4

"'Going to enter him for the cup?' says Ferguson.

"'I don't know yet,' says Mr. Van, careless. 'I must see the committee, and tell them his antecedents--this horse rather outclasses most hunters.'

"'He doesn't outclass mine, over the cup course, for five thousand!' says Ferguson, gettin' red.

"'Done!' says Mr. Van, quiet-like. 'If the committee says I'm eligible we'll settle it in the cup race. If not, we can run a match.'

"'Entirely satisfactory,' says Ferguson, 'n' starts to go. But he comes back, 'n' looks at Mr. Van wicked. 'By the way,' he says, 'money doesn't interest either of us at present. Suppose we raise the stake this way--the loser will take a trip abroad, for a year, and in the meantime we both agree to let matters rest--in a certain quarter.'

"'Done!' says Mr. Van again. He looks at the other guy colder 'n ice when he says it.

"Ferguson nods to him 'n' rides off.

"The English gink has heard the bet, 'n' when Ferguson beats it he shakes his head.

"'Aw, old chap!' he says. 'That's a bit raw--don't you think? I'm sorry you let him draw you. It's a beastly mess.'

"'I'm not afraid of him and his horse!' says Mr. Van. But I can see he ain't feelin' joyous.

"'Damn him and his hawss--and you too!' says the English gink. 'Aw, it's the young girl you've dragged into it, Billy!'

"'It's a confidential matter, and no names were mentioned,' says Mr. Van.

"'Don't quibble, old chap!' says the English gink. 'The name's nothing. And as for its being confidential--Ferguson is sure to tell that--aw--French puppy he's so thick with, and the viscawnt'll be--aw--tea-tabling it about by five o'clock!'

"'You're right, of course,' says Mr. Van, slow. 'It was a low thing to do--a cad's trick. No wonder you English are so rotten superior. You don't need brains--the right thing's bred into your bones. Your tempers never show you up. We revert to the gutter at the pinch.'

"'Oh, I say! That's bally nonsense!' says the English gink. 'I would have done the same thing.'

"'Not unless the fifteen hundred years it's taken to make you were wiped off the slate,' says Mr. Van. 'However, I'll have to see it through now.'

"The guys that run the club say Rainbow can start in the cup race. Mr. Van tells me, 'n' the next week I watch him while he sends the hoss over the course. We're comin' up towards the club-house, after the work-out, 'n' we run into Miss Livingston. She hands Mr. Van the icy stare 'n' he starts to say something but she breaks in.

"'I wonder you care to waste any words on a mere racing wager,' she says.

"'Please let me try to explain . . .' says Mr. Van.

"'There can be no explanation. What you did was the act of a boor--and a fool,' says the dame, 'n' walks on by.

"I think over what she says. 'She's more sore cause she thinks he'll lose than anythin' else,' I says to myself. 'He ain't in so bad, after all.' But Mr. Van don't tumble. He's awful glum from then on.

"There's a fierce mob of swells at the course the day of the race, classy rigs as far as you can see. The last thing I says to Mr. Van is:

"'You've got the step of them any place in the route, but you're on a thoroughbred, 'n' he'll run hisself into the ground if you let him. You don't know how to rate him right--so stay close to the Macbeth hoss till you come to the last fence, then turn Rainbow loose, 'n' he'll make his stretch-run alone.'

"There's six entries, but the race is between Rainbow and Macbeth from the get-away. Macbeth is a black hoss, 'n' I never believed till then a hunter could romp that fast. He was three len'ths ahead of the field at the first fence, with Rainbow right at his necktie. They gets so far ahead, nobody sees the other starters from the second fence on. Mr. Van rides just like I tells him, 'n' lets the black hoss make the pace. Man!--that hunter did run! Towards the end both hosses begin to tire, but the clip was easier fur the thoroughbred, 'n' I see Rainbow's got the most left.

"Before they come to the last fence Mr. Van turns his hoss loose like I tells him, 'n' he starts to come away from Macbeth. My! but those swells did holler! They never thought Rainbow has a chance. At the last fence he's a len'th in front, 'n' right there it happens Mr. Van don't take hold of him enough to keep his head up, 'n' he blunders at the fence 'n' comes down hard on his knees. Mr. Van slides clear to the hoss's ears, 'n' the crowd gives a groan as Macbeth comes over 'n' goes by.

"'He's gone!' I says to myself, 'n' I can't believe it when he gets back in the saddle somehow 'n' starts to ride. But the black hoss has a good six len'ths 'n' now two hundred yards to go.

"'He'll never reach . . .' I says out loud. 'He'll never reach . . .'

"Then Rainbow begins his stretch-run with the blood comin' out of his knees, 'n' while he's a tired hoss, a gamer one never looks through a bridle. I ain't knockin' that hunter--there was no canary in him, but I think a game thoroughbred's the gamest hoss that lives!

"Ole Rainbow is a straight line from his nose to his tail. His ears is flat 'n' his mouth's half open fur air. Every jump he takes looks thirty feet long 'n' he's gettin' to the black hoss fast. I'm watchin' the distance to go 'n' all of a sudden I furgets where I am--.

"'He wins sure as hell!' I hollers.

"'Oh, will he?' says a voice. I looks up 'n' there's Miss Livingston sittin' on her hoss, her fists doubled up 'n' her face whiter'n chalk.

"About ten len'ths from the finish Rainbow gets to the black 'n' they look each other in the eye. But them long jumps of the thoroughbred breaks the hunter's heart, 'n' Rainbow comes away, 'n' wins by a len'th. . . .

"After I've cooled Rainbow out, 'n' bandaged his knees at the club stables, I starts fur home with him.

"I'm just leavin' the main road, to take the short cut, when Miss Livingston gallops by, with a groom trailin'. She looks up the cross-road, sees me 'n' the hoss, 'n' reins in. She says somethin' to the groom 'n' he goes on.

"Miss Livingston comes up the crossroad alone, 'n' stops when she gets to us.

"'Is that Rainbow?' she says.

"'Yes'm,' I says.

"'Help me down, please,' she says. I tries to do it, but I don't make a good job of it.

"'You're not a lady's groom?' she says, smilin'.

"'No'm,' I says.

"'I should like to pat the winner;' she says. 'May I?'

"'Go as far as you like,' I says.

"'I beg pardon?' she says, lookin' at me funny.

"'Yes'm, you can pat him,' I says.

"She takes Rainbow by the head, 'n' sort of hugs it, 'n' rubs the tips of her fingers over his eyelids. Then she whispers to him, but I hears it.

"'Old precious!' she says. 'I've always loved Rainbows! Do you bring a fair day, too?'

"Just then a black auto sneaks around the bend of the main road, 'n' Mr. Van's drivin' it. He sees us, stops, 'n' comes up the side road to where we are. She don't hear him till he's right close. Then she backs away from Rainbow.

"'I thought you might become tired of your sudden interest in hunting, Mr. Van Voast,' she says. 'And I should like to own this horse--I was just looking at him,' she tries to say it haughty, but it don't seem to scare him none. He looks at her steady.

"'If I give you a rainbow, will you give me its equivalent?' he says.

"'A pot of gold? Yes-- How much will you take?' she says, but she don't look at him no more.

"'A pot of gold is at the end,' he says. 'This is the beginning, dear. . . . I want a promise.'

"'That would be a fair exchange, would it not?' she says, 'n' looks up at him. I never see eyes look like that before. They puts me in mind of when the band's playin' as the hosses go to the post fur the Kentucky Derby.

"'Blister,' says Mr. Van, 'show the horses the view over the hill; they'll enjoy it.'

"I'm on my way in a hurry, but hears her say:

"'Oh, Billy, not here!'

"They don't come along fur half an hour. When they does, Mr. Van says to me:

"'Lead Rainbow to the Livingston stables, Blister. He has a new owner.'

"'Does you get a good price fur him?' I says, like I don't tumble to nothin'.

"'What a remarkable groom!' says Miss Livingston.

"'Isn't he?' says Mr. Van. Then he comes 'n' grabs me by the mitt. 'Don't worry about the price, old boy,' he says. 'No horse ever brought so much before!'"

SALVATION

At the invitation of Blister Jones I had come from the city's heat to witness the morning "work-outs". For two hours horse after horse had shot by, leaving a golden dust-cloud to hang and drift and slowly settle.

It was fairly cool under the big tree by the track fence, and the click of Blister's stop-watch, with his varied comments on what those clicks recorded, drifted out of my consciousness much as had the dust-clouds. Even the thr-rump, thr-rump, thr-rump of flying hoofs--crescendo, fortissimo, diminuendo--finally became meaningless.

"Here's one bred to suit you!" rasped a nasal voice, and I sat up, half awake, to observe a tall man lead a thorough-bred on to the track and dexterously "throw" a boy into the tiny saddle.

"Why?" Blister questioned.

"He's by Salvation," explained the tall man. "Likely-lookin' colt, ain't he? Think he favors the old hoss any?"

"'Bout the head he does," Blister answered. "He won't girt as big as the old hoss did at the same age."

"Well, if he's half as good as his daddy he's some hoss at that," the tall man stated, as he started up the track, watch in hand.

Blister followed the colt with his eyes.

"Ever hear of Salvation?" he finally asked.

"Oh, yes," I replied.

"Well, I brings out Salvation as a three-year-old, 'n' what happens is quite a bunch of chatter--want to hear it?"

"You know it," I said, dropping into Blister's vernacular.

"That's pretty good for you," he said, grinning at my slang. "Well, to begin with, I'm in Loueyville. It's in the fall, 'n' I'm just back from Sheepshead. One way 'n' another I've had a good year. I'm down on two or three live ones when the odds are right, 'n' I've grabbed off a bundle I ain't ashamed to flash in any kind of company.

"My string's been shipped South, 'n' I thinks I'll knock around Kentucky fur a couple of weeks, 'n' see if I can't pick up some hosses to train.

"One mawnin' I'm in the Gait House, lookin' fur a hossman that's stoppin' there, 'n' I see Peewee Simpson settin' in the lobby like he'd just bought the hotel.

"'Who left the door open?' I says to him.

"'It's still open, I see,' says Peewee, lookin' at me.

"We exchanges a few more remarks, 'n' then Peewee tells me he's come to Loueyville to buy some yearlin's fur ole man Harris.

"'There's a dispersal sale to-morrow at the Goodloe farm,' says Peewee. ''N' I hear there's some real nice stuff going under the hammer. General Goodloe croaked this spring. They cleaned him in a cotton deal last year 'n' now their goin' to sell the whole works--studs, brood mares, colts--everything; plows, too--you want a plow? All you need is a plow 'n' a mule to put you where you belong.'

"'Where's this farm at?' I says.

"'Over in Franklin County,' says Peewee. 'I'm goin' over--want to go 'long?'

"'You're on,' I says. 'I'm not particular who travels with me any more.'

"We gets off the train next mawnin' at a little burg called Goodloe, 'n' there's three or four niggers with three or four ratty-lookin' ole rigs to drive hossmen out to the sale. It's a fierce drive, 'n' the springs is busted on our rig. I thinks we'll never get there, 'n' I begins to cuss Peewee fur bringin' me.

"'What you got to kick at?' says Peewee. 'Ain't you gettin' a free ride? Cheer up--think of all the nice plows you're goin' to see.'

"'You take them plows to hell 'n' make furrows in the cinders with 'em,' I says, wonderin' if I can get a train back to Loueyville anyways soon.

"But when we gets to the farm I'm glad I come. Man, that was some farm! Miles of level blue-grass pasture, with white fences cuttin' it up into squares, barns 'n' paddocks 'n' sheds, all painted white, just scattered around by the dozen. There's a track to work hosses on, too, but it's pretty much growed up with weeds. The main house is back in some big trees. It's brick 'n' has two porches, one on top of the other, all the way around it.

"The sale is just startin' when we get there. The auctioneer is in the judge's stand at the track 'n' the hosses is showed in the stretch.

"The first thing to sell is brood mares, 'n' they're as good a lot as I ever looks over. I loses Peewee in the crowd, 'n' climbs on to a shed roof to see better.

"Pretty soon here comes a real ole nigger leadin' a mare that looks to be about as old as the nigger. At that she showed class. Her head's still fine, 'n' her legs ain't got so much as a pimple on 'em.

"'Number eleven in your catalogues, gentlemen!' says the auctioneer. 'Mary Goodloe by Victory, first dam Dainty Maid by--what's the use of tellin' you _her_ breedin', you _all_ know _her_! Gentlemen,' he says, 'how many of you can say you ever owned a Kentucky Derby winner? Well, here's your chance to own one! This mare won the derby in--er--

"'Eighty-three, suh--I saw her do it,' says a man with a white mustache.

"'Eighty-three, thank you, Colonel. You have a fine memory,' says the auctioneer. 'I saw her do it, too. Now, gentlemen,' he says, 'what am I offered for this grand old mare? She's the dam of six winners--three of 'em stake hosses. Kindly start the bidding.'

"'Twenty dollahs!' says the ole nigger who has hold of the mare.

"'Fifty!' says some one else.

"'Hole on dah,' sings out the ole nigger. 'I'se just 'bliged to tell you folks I'se pu'chasin' dis hyar mare fo' Miss Sally Goodloe!'

"The auctioneer looks at the guy who bids fifty.

"'I withdraw that bid,' says the guy.

"'Sold to you for twenty dollars, Uncle Jake,' says the auctioneer. 'Bring on number twelve!'

"'Hyah's yo' twenty dollahs,' says the ole nigger, fishin' out a roll of raggedy bills and passin' 'em up to the stand.

"'Thank you, Uncle Jake. Come to the clerk for your bill of sale this evenin',' says the auctioneer.

"I watches the sale a while longer, 'n' then mooches into the big barn where the yearlin's 'n' two-year-olds is waitin' to be sold. They're a nice lot of colts, but I ain't interested in this young stuff--colts is too much of a gamble fur me. Only about one in fifty'll make good. Somebody else can spend their money on 'em at that kind of odds.

"I goes out of the colt barn 'n' begins to ramble around, lampin' things in general. I comes to a shed full of plows, 'n' I has to laugh when I sees 'em. I'm standin' there with a grin on my face when a nigger comes 'round the shed 'n' sees me lookin' at them plows.

"'Fine plows, sah, an' vehy cheap,' he says.

"'Do I look like I needs a plow?' I says to him.

"'No, sah,' says the nigger, lookin' me over. 'I cyant rightly say you favohs plowin', but howkum you ain' tendin' de sale?'

"'I don't see nothin' over there that suits me,' I says.

"The nigger is sore in a minute.

"'You is suttanly hahd to please, white man,' he says. 'Ain' no finah colts in Kaintucky dan dem.'

"'That may be so, but how about Tennessee?' I says, just to get him goin'.

"'Tennessee! Tennessee!' he says. 'What you talkin' 'bout? Why, _we_ does de fahm wuck wid likelier colts dan _dey_ sends to de races.'

"'I've seed some nifty babies down there,' I says.

"'Look-a-hyar, man!' he says, 'you want to see a colt what am a colt?'

"'How far?' I says.

"'No ways at all, jus' over yondah,' says the nigger.

"'Lead me to it,' I say to him, 'n' he takes me over to a long lane with paddocks down each side of it. All the paddocks is empty but two. In the first one is the ole mare, Mary Goodloe; 'n' next to her is a slashin' big chestnut colt.

"'Cast yo' eyes on dat one!' says the nigger.

"I don't say nothin' fur five minutes. I just looks at that colt. I never sees one like him before, nor since. There's some dead leaves blowin' around the paddock 'n' he's jumpin' on 'em with his front feet like a setter pup playin'. Two jumps 'n' he's clear across the paddock! His shoulders 'n' quarters 'n' legs is made to order. His head 'n' throat-latch is clean as a razor, 'n' he's the proudest thing that ever stood on four legs. He looks to be comin' three, but he's muscled like a five-year-old.

"'How 'bout him, boss?' says the nigger after a while.

"'Well,' I says, 'they broke the mold when they made that one!'

"'Dar's de mold,' he says, pointin' to the ole mare in the next paddock. 'She's his mammy. Dat's Mahey Goodloe, named fo' ole Miss Goodloe what's dade. Dat mare win de derby. Dis hyar colt's by impo'ted Calabash.'

"'When does this colt sell?' I asks him.

"'He ain' fo' sale,' says the nigger. 'De estate doan own him. De General done gib him to Miss Sally when de colt's bohn.'

"'Where's she at now?' I says to the nigger. I had to own that colt if my roll could reach him--I knowed that 'fore I'd looked at him a minute.

"'Up to de house, mos' likely,' says the nigger. 'You'd better save yo' shoe leather, boss. She ain' gwine to sell dat colt no matter what happens.'

"I beats it up to the big house, but when I gets there I see nobody's livin' in it. The windows has boards across 'em. I looks in between the cracks 'n' sees a whale of a room. Hangin' from the ceilin' is two things fur lights all covered with glass dingles. They ain't nothin' else in the room but a tall mirror, made of gold, that goes clear to the ceilin'. I walks clean around the house, but it's sure empty, so I oozes back to the barns 'n' collars the sales clerk.

"'I'm a-lookin' fur Miss Goodloe,' I tells him. 'A nigger says she's at the house, but I've just been up there 'n' they ain't even furniture in it.'

"'No,' says the clerk; 'the furniture was sold to a New York collector two weeks ago. Miss Goodloe is livin' in the head trainer's house across the road yonder. She won't have that long, I don't reckon, though I did hear she's fixin' to buy it when the farm sells, with some money ole Mrs. Goodloe left her.'

"I goes over to the little house the clerk points out, 'n' knocks. A right fat nigger woman, with her sleeves rolled up, comes to the door.

"'What you want?' she says.

"'I want to see Miss Goodloe,' I says.

"'You cyant see her. She ain' seein' nobody,' says the nigger woman, 'n' starts to shut the door.

"'Wait a minute, aunty," I says. 'I got to see her--it's business, sure-enough business.'

"'Doan you aunty me!' says she. 'Now, you take yo' bisniss with you an' ramble! Bisniss has done sole off eve'y stick an' stone we got! I doan want to hyar no mo' 'bout bisniss long as I live'--'n' bang goes the door.

"I waits a minute 'n' then knocks again--nothin' doin'. I knocks fur five minutes steady. Pretty soon here she comes, but this time she's got a big brass-handled poker with her.

"'Ef I has to clout you ovah de haid wid dis pokah you ain' gwine to transack no mo' bisniss fo' a tollable long time!' she says. She's mad all right, 'n' she hollers this at me pretty loud.

"'Fore I can say anythin' a dame steps out in the hall 'n' looks at me 'n' the nigger woman 'n' the poker.

"'What's the matter, Liza?' she says to the nigger woman, 'n' her voice is good to listen at. You don't care what she says, just so she keeps a-sayin' it. She's got on a white dress with black fixin's on it, 'n' she just suits her dress, 'cause her hair is dark 'n' her face is white, 'n' she has great big eyes that put me in mind of--I don't know what! She ain't very tall, but she makes me feel littler'n her when she looks at me. She's twenty-four or five, mebby, but I'm a bum guesser at a dame's age.

"'Dis pusson boun' he gwine to see you an' I boun' he ain', Miss Sally,' says the nigger woman. The little dame comes out on the porch.

"'I am Miss Goodloe,' she says to me. 'What do you wish?'

"'I want to buy a hoss from you, ma'am,' I says to her.

"'The horses are being sold across the way at that biggest barn,' she says.

"'Yes'm,' I says, 'I've just come from there. I--'

"'Have you been watching the sale?' she says, breakin' in.

"'Yes'm--some,' I says.

"'Liza, you may go to your kitchen now,' she says. 'Can you tell me if they have sold the mare, Mary Goodloe, yet?' she says to me when the nigger woman's gone.

"'Yes'm, she was sold,' I says.

"She flinches like I'd hit her 'n' I see her chin begin to quiver, but she bites her lip 'n' I looks off down the road to give her a chance. Pretty soon she's back fur more. I'm feelin' like a hound.

"'Do you know who bought her?' she says.

"'A nigger man they call Uncle Jake buys her,' I says.

"'Uncle Jake!' she says. 'Are you sure? Was he an old man with poor eyesight?'

"'He was old all right,' I says. 'But I don't notice about his eyes. He give twenty dollars fur her.'

"'Is that all she brought?' she says.

"'Well, she brings more,' I says, 'only the ole man makes a speech 'n' tells 'em he's buying her fur you. Everybody quit biddin' then.' She stands there a minute, her eyes gettin' bigger 'n' bigger. I never see eyes so big 'n' soft 'n' dark.

"'Would you do me a favor?' she says at last.

"'Fifty of 'em,' I says. She gives me a little smile.

"'One's all that's necessary, thank you,' she says. 'Will you find Uncle Jake for me and tell him I wish to see him?'

"'You bet I will,' I says, 'n' I beats it over to the barns. . . I finds Uncle Jake, 'n' he's got weak eyes all right--he can't hardly see. He's got rheumatism, too--he's all crippled up with it. When I gets back with him, Miss Goodloe's still standin' on the porch.

"'I want to find out who bought old Mary, Uncle Jake,' she says. 'Do you know?'

"'I was jus' fixin' to come over hyar an' tell you de good news, Miss Sally,' says Uncle Jake. 'When dey puts ole Mahey up to' sale, she look pow'ful ole an' feeble. De autioneer jes 'seeches 'em fo' to make some sawt o' bid, but hit ain' no use. Dey doan' nobody want her. Hit look lak de auctioneer in a bad hole--he doan' know what to do zakly. Hit's gittin' mighty 'bahassin' fo' him, so I say to him: "Mr. Auctioneer, I ain' promisin' nothin', but Miss Sally Goodloe mought be willin' to keep dis hyar ole mare fo' 'membrance sake." De auctioneer am mighty tickled, an' he say, "Uncle Jake, ef Miss Sally will 'soom de 'sponsibility ob dis ole mare, hit would 'blige me greatly." Dat's howkum ole Mahey back safe in de paddock, an' dey ain' _nobody_ gwine to take her away fum you, honey!'

"'Uncle Jake,' says Miss Goodloe, 'where is your twenty dollars you got for that tobacco you raised?'

"'Ain' I tole you 'bout dat, Miss Sally? Dat mis'able money done skip out an' leave thoo a hole in ma pocket,' says Uncle Jake, 'n' pulls one of his pants pockets inside out. Sure enough, there's a big hole in it.

"'Didn't I give you a safety-pin to pin that money in your inside coat pocket?' says Miss Goodloe.

"'Yess'm, dat's right,' he says. 'But I'se countin' de money one day an' a span ob mules broke loose an' stahts lickety-brindle fo' de bahn, an' aimin' to ketch de mules, I pokes de money in de pocket wid de hole. I ain' neber see dat no-'coun' money sence.'

"Miss Goodloe looks at the ole nigger fur a minute.

"'Uncle Jake . . . oh, Uncle Jake . . .' she says. '_These_ are the things I just _can't_ stand!' Her eyes fill up, 'n' while she bites her lip agin, it ain't no use. Two big tears roll down her cheeks. 'I'll see you in a moment,' she says to me, 'n' goes inside.

"'Bad times! Bad times, pow'ful bad times!' says Uncle Jake, 'n' hobbles away a-mutterin' to hisself.