his advice,
though it was long until sleep came to me.

But now as the blue-gray housetops of Louisville sparkled with tiny
points of light, and the window-panes swam with pink-gold flame, I
looked out over the still sleeping city and laughed aloud at my fears
of the night before.

"A perfect day," I thought. "The favorite will surely win, and Blister
and Uncle Jake and Mrs. Dillon will be made perfectly happy. A
beautiful day, and a fitting one in which to fix the name of Tres Jolie
among the equine stars!"

"We read some of your poetry last night after you had gone," said Mrs.
Dillon, as we waited for the motor to take us to Churchill Downs. "I
liked it, and I don't care for verse as a rule, except Omar. I dote on
_The Rubaiyat_; don't you?"

"Yes, indeed," I replied. "I can't quite swallow his philosophy, but
he puts it all so charmingly. Some of his pictures are most alluring."

"Do learned persons ever long for the _wilderness_, and the _bough_,
and--the other things?" Miss Goodloe asked innocently.

"Quite frequently," I assured her.

She affected a sigh of relief.

"That's such a help," she said. "It makes them seem more like the rest
of us."

A huge motor-car wheeled from the line at the curb and glided past us.
A man in the tonneau lifted his hat high above his head as he saw Judge
Dillon.

"Oh, you Tres Jolie!" he called with a smile. "The best luck in the
world to you, Judge!" It was an excessively rich New Yorker, who owned
one of the horses about to run in the derby.

"Oh, you Rob Roy!" called back Judge Dillon, also raising his hat.
"The same to you, Henry!" And suddenly there was a tug at my nerves,
for I realized that this was the _salut de combat_.

But Uncle Jake, his faith in his "Honey-bird" unshaken as the time drew
near, rode in placid contentment on the front seat as we sped to the
track. We passed, or were passed by, many motor-cars from which came
joyous good wishes as the Dillons were recognized. Each packed and
groaning street-car held some one who knew our party, and "Oh, you Tres
Jolie!" they howled as we swept by. The old negro's ears drank all
this in. It was as wine to his spirit. He hummed a soft minor
accompaniment to the purring motor, and leaning forward I caught these
words:

"Curry a mule an' curry a hoss,
Keep down trubbul wid de stable boss!"

"Luck to her, Judge!" called the man at the gates, as he waved us
through. "Ah've bet my clothes