"She don't say nothin' more, but hands me the dough. I buys her ticket 'n' checks her trunk fur her. She keeps real quiet till her rattler's ready. I kisses her good-by when they calls the train fur New York, 'n' still she don't say nothin'. "'What's on your mind, girlie?' I says. "'Nothing much,' she says. 'Only I'm letter perfect in the turnin'-down act, but when it's the other way--I ain't up in my lines.'" . . . Blister waved to a waiter and I saw there was to be no more. "Did you ever see her again?" I inquired. "Now you're askin' questions," said Blister. TRES JOLIE The hot inky odors of a newspaper plant took me by the throat during my progress in the whiny elevator to the third floor. Before attacking the day's editorial I tried to decide whether it was the nerve flicking clash of the linotypes, the pecking chatter of the typewriters, or the jarring rumble of the big cylinder presses that was taking the life out of my work. I was impartial in this, but gave it up. And then a letter was dropped on the desk before me, and I recognized in the penciled address upon the envelope the unformed hand of Blister Jones. "Dear Friend," the letter began, and somehow the ache behind my eyes died out as I read. 'I guess you are thinking me dead by this time on account of not hearing from me sooner in answer to yours. Well, this is to show you I am alive and kicking. I guess you have read how good the mare is doing. She is a good mare, as good as her dam. I had some mean luck with her at Nashville by her going lame for me, so she could not start in the big stake, but she is O. K. now. I note what you said about being sick. That is tough. Why don't you come to Louisville and see the mare run in the derby. If you would only bet, I can give you a steer that would put you right and pay all your expenses. Well, this is all for the present. "Resp. "Blister Jones. "P. S. Now, be sure to come as I want you to see the mare. She is sure a good mare." I laid the letter down with a sigh. The mare referred to was the now mighty Tres Jolie favorite for the Kentucky Derby. I had seen her once when a two-year-old, and I remembered Blister's pride as he told me she was to be placed in his hands by Judge Dillon. Yes, I would be glad to see "the mare," and I longed for the free sunlit world of which she was a part, as for a tonic. But this was, of course, impossible. So long as hard undiscerning materialism demanded editorials--editorials I must furnish. "Damn such a pen!" I said aloud, at its first scratch. "Quite right!" boomed a deep voice. A big gentle hand fell on my shoulder and spun me away from the desk. "See here," the voice went on gruffly, "you're back too soon. We can't afford to take chances with _you_. Get out of this. The cashier'll fix you up. Don't let me see you around here again till--we have better pens," and he was gone before thanks were possible.