e, sez I, 'Doctor, I ain't held a
bite on my stummick these three livelong days!'" This was delivered by
a buxom dame, fanning vigorously the meanwhile, and was noteworthy
since the lady was closely followed by a little man whose frailty
suggested dissolution, and who bore a large lunch box under one arm and
a heavy child upon the other.

The men appeared somewhat interested in the pampered nervous-looking
thoroughbreds, but made few comments. As compared to their women folk
they seemed more silent than the very tomb itself.

Long after the grangers had drifted out of our sight, Blister's
thoughts seemed devoted to them. Several times he chuckled to himself.

"Every time I see a bunch of rubes," he said at last, "it puts me in
mind of Butsy Trimble 'n' the new stalls at Lake Minnehaha Park."

"Lake Minnehaha Park," I repeated. "I never heard of such a place."

"It's up at Mount Clinton," Blister explained. "It's Ohio's beauty
spot."

"Get out!" I scoffed.

"Fact!" said Blister. "It says so right over the gates."

"Tell me about it," I demanded.

"This ain't been so long ago," said Blister. "The meetin' here at
Latonia is about over. Ole Whiskers has put the game on the fritz in
New York, so everybody's studyin' where to ship when get-away day
comes, 'n' the whole bunch is sore as bears--you can't get a pleasant
word from nobody.

"All I got in my string is some two-year-olds of Judge Dillon's. They
go back to the farm when the meetin' closes, so I ain't worried
none--not about where to ship.

"One night me 'n' Peewee Simpson is playin' pitch on a bale of hay with
a lantern. Butsy Trimble is settin' beside the bale readin' a hoss
paper.

"'Gimme high, jack, game--' says Peewee, after a hand.

"'I'll give you a poke in the nose!' I says. 'What you got fur game?'

"'I s'pose you want to count fur game--don't you?' says Peewee. 'I'll
give it to you sooner'n argue with you.'

"'You're right, you'll give it to me,' I says.

"'Well, I said I'd give it to you, didn't I?' says Peewee. 'You'd
rather argue'n eat, wouldn't you?'

"'All that's wrong with you,' I says, 'is you're sore 'cause you can't
hog game!'

"Peewee lays down his cards.

"'Now, look a here, you freckle-faced shrimp!' he says. 'Get off this
bale of hay--it'll _poison_ a hoss if _you_ set on it much longer!'

"'Whose bale of hay do you think this is?' I says. 'You tryin' to hog
_it_ like you does game?'

"'Gimme my lanter