"Ain't she full of race-hoss
talk yet?"
"Always room for one more," I replied, frankly producing the note-book.
"Well, I guess I'm the goat," he said resignedly. "I _had_ figured to
sick you on to Peewee Simpson to-day, but he ain't around, so I'll spill
some chatter about ringin' a hoss among the society bunch one time, 'n'
then I'll buy a bucket of suds."
"_I'll_ buy the beer," I stated with emphasis.
"All right--just so we get it--I'll be dryer'n a covered bridge," said
Blister.
"This ringin' I mentions," he went on, "happens while I'm ruled off.
"At the get-away I've got a job with a Chicago buyer, who used to live in
New York. This guy has a big ratty barn. He deals mostly in broken-down
skates that he sells to pedlers 'n' cabmen. Once in a while he takes a
flier in high-grade stuff, 'n' one day he buys a team of French coach
hosses from a breedin' farm owned by a millionaire.
"Believe me they was a grand pair--seal brown, sixteen hands 'n' haired
like babies. They fans their noses with their knees, when get's the
word, 'n' after I sits behind 'em 'n' watches their hock-action fur a
while I feels like apologizin' to 'em fur makin' 'em haul a bum like me.
"These dolls go East,' says the guy I works fur. 'They don't pull no
pig-sticker in this burg. They'll be at the Garden so much they'll head
fur Madison Square whenever they're taken out.'
"He ships the pair East 'n' sends me with 'em as caretaker. I deliver
'em to a swell sales company up-town in New York.
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