. . Whoa!
Yuh no-'coun' houn', yuh!" The first of the speech had been delivered
soothingly, as the smith succeeded in getting a reluctant hind leg into
his lap; the last was snorted out as the leg straightened suddenly and
catapulted him into a corner of the shop, where he sat down heavily
among some discarded horseshoes.
The smith arose, sweat and curses dripping from him.
"Chris!" said Blister, "it's a shame the way you treat that pore filly.
She comes into yer dirty joint like a little lady, fur to get a new
pair of shoes, 'n' you grabs her by the leg 'n' then cusses her when
she won't stand fur it."
Part of the curses were now directed at Blister.
"Come on, Four Eyes," he said. "This ain't no place fur a minister's
son."
"I'd like to stay and see the shoeing!" I protested, as he rose to go.
"What shoeing?" he asked incredulously. "You ain't meanin' a big
strong guy like Chris manhandlin' a pore little filly? Come awn--I
can't stand to see him abusin' her no more."
We wandered down to the big brown oval, and Blister, perching himself
on the top rail of the fence, took out his stop-watch, although there
were no horses on the track.
"What are you going to do with that?" I asked.
"Got to do it," he grinned. "If I was to set on a track fence without
ma clock in my mitt, I'd get so nur-r-vous! Purty soon I'd be as
fidgity as that filly back there. Feelin' this ole click-click kind-a
soothes my fevered brow."
In a silence that followed I watched a whipped-cream cloud adrift on
the deepest of deep blue skies.
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