"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 beneath its hard surface, might delight the unsophisticated, but not Blister. To him it lacked in novelty. "I ain't been in one of these here rats ketchers fur quite a while," said Blister, as we descended the steps beneath the flambuoyant sign. "Do you go to shows much?" he asked, when two steins were between us on the flemish oak board. "Not a great deal," I replied. "I did dramatics--wrote up shows--for two years and that rather destroyed my enjoyment of the theater." "I got you," said Blister. "Seein' so much of it spoils you fur it. That's me, too. I won't cross the street to see a show when I'm on the stage." Had he suddenly announced himself king of the Cannibal Islands I would have looked and felt about as then. I gazed at him with dropping jaw. "No, I ain't bugs!" he grinned, as he saw my expression. "I'm on the stage quite a while. Ain't I never told you?" "You certainly have not," I said emphatically.