is case.'

"'It's too bad she don't like him,' I says.

"'Who say she doan' like him?' says Liza. 'He come a sto'min' round
hyah like he gwine to pull de whole place up by de roots an' transport
hit ovah Lexington way. Fust he's boun' fo' to take dat hoss what's
done win all dem good dollahs. Den his min' flit f'om dat to Miss
Sally, an' he's aimin' to cyar her off like she was a 'lasses bar'l or
a yahd ob calico. Who is dem Dillons, anyway? De Goodloes owned big
lan' right hyar in Franklin County when de Dillons ain' nothin' but
Yankee trash back in Maine or some other outlan'ish place! Co'se we
sends him 'bout his bisniss--him an' his money! Ef he comes roun'
hyar, now we's rich again, an' sings small fo' a while. Miss Sally
mighty likely to listen to what he got to say--she so kindly dat a-way.'

"At the depot in Goodloe that night I writes a wire to Jack Dillon.
'If you still want Salvation better come to Goodloe,' is what the wire
says. I signs it 'n' sends it 'n' takes the train fur New Awlins.

"The colt ruptures a tendon not long after that, so he never races no
more, 'n' I ain't never been to Goodloe since."

Blister yawned, lay back on the grass and pulled his hat over his face.

"Is Salvation alive now?' I asked.

"Sure he's alive!" The words come muffled from beneath the hat. "He's
at the head of Judge Dillon's stock farm over near Lexington."

"I'm surprised Miss Goodloe sold him," I said.

"She don't . . . sell him," Blister muttered drowsily. "Mrs.
Dillon . . . still . . . owns him."

A TIP IN TIME

Blister was silent as we left the theater. I had chosen the play
because I had fancied it would particularly appeal to him. The name
part--a characterization of a race-horse tout--had been acceptably done
by a competent young actor. The author had hewn as close to realism as
his too clever lines would permit. There had been a wealth of
Blister's own vernacular used on the stage during the evening, and I
had rather enjoyed it all. But Blister, it was now evident, had been
disappointed.

"You didn't like it?" I said tentatively, as I steered him toward the
blazing word "Rathskeller," a block down the street.

"Oh, I've seed worse shows," was the unenthusiastic reply. "I can get
an earful of that kind of chatter dead easy without pryin' myself loose
from any kale," he added.

I saw where the trouble lay. The terse expressive jargon of the race
track, its dry humor just be