After the race the stallion had reached back, and getting the jockey's leg between his teeth, had torn him from the saddle. Then before a screaming, horror-stricken grand-stand he had stamped the boy into a red waste. This was his first and last public atrocity. He had killed men since, but always when they were alone with him. No one had seen him at his murders. He would have been destroyed when his racing days were over, but he possessed the ability to transmit a large measure of his stamina and speed to his offspring, and was greatly in demand as a sire. I stood before The Big Train's stall, fascinated by his wicked attempts to get at me until Blister's attention was attracted by the thud of the stallion's hoofs against the lower door. "Come on back here 'n' set down 'n' let that hoss get his rest,' he ordered. I obeyed. "Why on earth did you take him?" I asked, when once more seated on the bale of straw. "Well, ole Prindle says he'd give fifty bucks a week to the guy who'll handle him 'n' I needs the money . . . fur certain reasons." "Fur certain reasons" was added diffidently, I thought. This was an altogether new quality in Blister. And I remembered the pretty, spoiled-looking, young girl I had seen with him quite often of late. She was rosy, pouty, slim, enticing and thoroughly aware of how desirable she appeared. Blister had told me she was his landlady's daughter, and I knew she lived but a block from the race track. I thought of the head I had seen, and felt certain that fifty _thousand_ a week would not tempt me into an intimate relationship with its owner. "I can't tell you how sorry I am you've taken him--it's a fearful risk," I said. "Get out!" said Blister. "He won't even muss my hair. I never go in to him alone 'n' he don't like company fur his little stunts. He's a regular family hoss in a crowd." Two stable-boys now climbed the track fence and came toward us rather hastily. "Been on a vacation?" was Blister's greeting to them. "Playin' seven-up 'n' tried to finish the game," one of them explained as they started with buckets for the pump. "That's good. It don't matter whether these hosses get watered, just so you swipes enjoy yourselves," Blister commented. I watched languidly while the buckets were filled and brought to the horses, until this process reached the barred stall. Then I became interested. One of the boys approached the stall with a bucket in one hand and a pitchfork held near the pronged end in the other. He swung open the lower door and whacked the fork handle back and forth inside, yelling harsh commands in the meantime. He succeeded in getting the bucket where the horse could drink, but the pitchfork was seized and twisted and the boy had difficulty in wrenching it away. It was all he could do to regain possession of it. "Little pink toes is feelin' like his ole sweet self again," said Blister. "I been worried about him--he's seemed so pie-faced here lately."