"I've seed it many a time in little dirty-faced swipes," Blister stated. "I've seed exercise-boys so full of class they put the silks on 'em before they can bridle a hoss, 'n' they bawl like you've took away their apple when they lose their first race. You've heard of Hamilton?" "I have been told he is the best sire in America," I replied, wondering where this question led. "I won't say that," said Blister. "There's a lot of good hosses at stud in this land-of-the-free-when-you-pay-fur-it, but he's up there with the best of 'em. Did you know I owns him once myself?" "Not the great Hamilton?" I protested. "Yep, the great all-the-time, anyhow-'n'-any-place Hamilton," Blister assured me. "'N' speakin' of class in kids 'n' colts, lemme tell you about it." He reached for his "makin's" and I waited while he rolled a cigarette, this process being a necessary prelude to a journey into his past. "The year Seattle Sam goes down 'n' out," the words came in a cloud of cigarette smoke, "I'm at Saratoga. This Seattle is one of the big plungers, his nod's good with the bookies fur anything he wants to lay, 'n' he sure bets 'em to the sky. He owns a grand string of hosses, 'n' when one of 'em's out to win, believe me, he carries the coin!" "All the same they get him at last 'n' there ain't nothin' else talked about fur a couple of days when the word goes 'round that he's cleaned. The bunch acts like somebody's dead. They whisper when they tell it. It's got 'em dazed. "In them days there's a little squirt called Micky that hangs around the track. He ain't got a regular job; he just picks up odd mounts on a work-out now 'n' then. He don't weigh eighty pounds, but he's fresher'n a bucket of paint. His right name's Vincent Mulligan, 'n' his mother's a widow woman. I learns that 'cause the old lady sends a truant officer out to the track after him one day, 'n' the cop puts me wise after Micky has clumb through a stall window, 'n' give him the slip. "'Why, you big truck hoss,' says Micky to the bull as he skidoos through the window, 'you couldn't catch a cold at the north pole in yer dirty undershirt!' "'Why don't you go to school like you'd ought, Vincent?' I says to Micky, when he shows up the next day. "'Aw, you go to hell!' says Micky. 'Say, are you ever goin' to let me work one of yer dogs out in place of that smoke?' he says, pointin' at Snowball, my exercise-boy. "'Who you callin' a smoke?' says Snowball, startin' fur Micky. 'I'll slap the ugly I'ish mouth off you!' "Micky picks up a pitchfork. "'Go awn, you black boob!' he says. 'If I reaches fer yer gizzard with this tickler, I gets it!' "Snowball backs up. I grabs the fork from the little shrimp. "'Now, you beat it!' I says to him. "'Aw, you go to hell!' says Micky. He lays down on a bail of straw 'n' pulls his hat over his face. 'If any guy bothers me while I'm gettin' my rest,' he says, 'call a hearse. Don't wake me up till some guy wants a hoss worked out.'