The evening times. [volume] (Grand Forks, N.D.) 1906-1914, 1907-03-19

| there's nothing else for him to do but
| to hand the two-cross to the phony
layer. and he kicks the favorite out
from the rap of the drum. and fetches
him down to the wire by the difference
between Central and Rocky Mountain
time. and the trickster layer and his
brother got green ticket for the
citron patch for theirs
You are to remember that for
many years had been editing home
pages and women's departments, and
the like | leave it to any impartial
person if that kind of narrative
wasn't calculated to make me think
| was dreaming gibberish.
He was telling me how one of his
own horses was left ut the post in
big race.
And there was L. he said, when
the web went up, standing still with
my weight on my heels, rubbering
over the fence at bunch of dinges
sitting in a tree outside the grounds
He meant that his horse had been
left fiat footed when the barrier went
up and that the horse in his abstrac-
ton had been gazing at a cluster of
darkieS in the tree outside the track
grounds. But is it reasonable to sup
pose that I-editress of a woman's
page-could have known that without
some calculation?
You were standing still?' l said
to him. oh, then, this wasn't a
horse race, but footrace, and you
we're
"And again he had a perfectly le-
climate occasion to throw his head
back and laugh.
WELL he said again, with an air
of profound disgust over the incident,
when the bunch hit the top of the
bend there was the jock on my Edam
sound asleep in the saddle, dreaming
of coin, and he never nudged himself
out of the coma till hung of CANA
mbert belonging to Jimmy McCafferty
swung to the front and COPIED the
leading cush by four Salt Lake City
blocks.
"'But is it possible asked him,
for a jockel to really fall asleep on
horses back during racer
oh. there amt any doubt in the
world that at the outset OF that ex-
perience 1 was simply wonder as
compiler Of racing stories.
This morning glory of mine he
said. again describing one of his
horses, could tralpse mile in moth
ing by lantern light, but when he got
the colors up he was a pond lily
anchored to the bottom of a muddy
lake.
Those floral terms sounded pretty
enough, but 1 had to get him to ex-
plain them, of course.
HE was describing famous two
year-old, very small horse, that de-
veloped wonderful speed and weight
carrying ability.
why he said, that little scrap
of thing was only as big as guinea
pig or a woodchuck or a Chihuahua
dog. but he could carry four members
of the Fat Mems club and a bale of
hay in each saddle bag and then put
down five furlongs quicker than a
spotlight could reach from the gallery
to the stage
His explanation, of course, mod1-
fed the velocity of the two-year-old's
performance immensely, but from the
way he first put it that the horse sure
ly could go some. as the boy says.
1T didn't take me long as matter
of fact, to find out that the basis of
the racing patois is a tremendous but
picturesque method of exaggeration.
"'That fellow Mr.. Ullman said to
me, alluding to starter whose work
he did not like, couldn't start fire
in hay nov with nineteen boxes
of matches. Start race horses? He
couldn't start trolley cars
HE was speaking of horse that
he considered overrated.
"That one beat Salvador he ex-
claimed, derisively. why that plug
couldn't have beat bass drum If he
was standing on top of it.
HE was trying to convey an idea
of how tired field of horses were at
the finish of cup race at two miles
and quarter.
"They all had search warrants out
for holes in the fence he said. They
were leaning on each other in the
stretch like layout of soused stud
ents at stag dinner. Every one Of
'em was hollering for seventeen hours
of straight slumber. They were only
crawling, doing about half knot a
week at the finish. The CROPPED along
like bunch of misgiving tree toads.
You couldn't see 'em move. Oh, they
were tired, all right
Describing a famous cripple, DR..
Rice, that won a great race on three
legs. as the stories 60, Mr.. Ullman
said:
"'why. that old skeleton, when
Fred Foster took him up and pre-
pared him, hadn't enough meat on his
bones to make a stew for one. Every
one of his knees was the size of a
barrel of tar, and he'd been punch
fired and blistered until his legs
looked like half-finished things at the
Eden Musee.
"Theyd been running him with the
hop .juicea and when Fred got him
he was a croker ready for the Kelley
cure. Every time he took step he
made a noise like an old sign creaking
in the wind on q March day, and he
was so punk in the wind that when
he breathed you could hear him in
Hoboken.