"I'm going to Churchill Downs to cover the derby for a Sunday special!" I sang to the sporting editor as I passed his door. "The _Review of Reviews_ might use it!" followed me down the hall, and I chuckled as I headed for the cashier's desk. "Well, well, well!" was Blister's greeting. "Look who's here! I seen your ole specs shinin' in the sun clear down the line!" I sniffed luxuriously. "It smells just the same," I said. "Horses, leather and liniment! Where's Tres Jolie?" "In the second stall," said Blister, pointing. "Wait a minute--I'll have a swipe lead her out. Chick!"--this to a boy dozing on a rickety stool--"if your time ain't too much took up holdin' down that chair, this gentleman 'ud like to take a pike at the derby entry." Like a polished red-bronze sword leaping from a black velvet scabbard the mare came out of her stall into the sunlight, the boy clinging wildly to the strap. She snorted, tossed her glorious head, and shot her hind feet straight for the sky. "You, Jane, be a lady now!" yelled the boy, trying to stroke the arching neck. "Why does he call her Jane?" I asked. "Stable name," Blister explained. "Don't get too close--she's right on edge!" And after a pause, his eyes shining: "Can you beat her?" I shook my head, speechless. "Neither can _they_!" Blister's hand swept the two-mile circle of stalls that held somewhere within their big curve--the enemy. The boy at the mare's head laughed joyously. "They ain't got a chance!" he gloated. "All right, Chick," said Blister. "Put her up! Hold on!" he corrected suddenly. "Here's the boss!" And I became aware of a throbbing motor behind me. So likewise did Tres Jolie. "Whoa, Jane! Whoa, darling; it's mammy!" came in liquid tones from the motor. The rearing thoroughbred descended to earth with slim inquiring ears thrown forward, and I remembered that Blister had described Mrs. Dillon's voice as "good to listen at." "Look, Virginia, she knows me!" the velvet voice exclaimed. Another voice, rather heavy for a woman, but with a fascinating drawl in it, answered: "Perhaps she fancies you have a milk bottle with you. Isn't this the one you and Uncle Jake raised on a bottle?" "Yass'm, yass, Miss Vahginia, dat's her! Dat's ma Honey-bird!" came in excited tones from an ancient negro, who alighted stiffly from the motor and peered in our direction. As they approached, he held Mrs. Dillon by the sleeve, and I realized that for Uncle Jake the sun would never shine again. Judge Dillon, a big-boned silent man, I had met. And after the shower of questions poured upon Blister had abated, and the mare had been gentled, petted and given a lump of sugar with a final hug, he presented me to his wife. "My cousin, Miss Goodloe," said Mrs. Dillon, and I sensed a mass of tawny hair under the motor veil and looked into a pair of blue eyes set wide apart beneath a broad white brow. It was no time for details.