-
Bellefonte, Pa., September 26, 1930.
BAD HABIT LAND.
The topsyest-turveyest land that I know
Is the land where the careless and bad
children go. boss resolves to do somethin’ nice
Now take for example the dear little g5r him, when Mike comes down
boys with tuberculosis.
Who seldom, if ever, help pick up their So he induces a friend of his to
toys. induce his friend, Bill Calkins, to
I know at least two, and perhaps You Jet Mike Dolan come down to his
know more, ranch in New Mexico, to remain
Whose shoes lie on tables and hats on there indefinitely an’ without cost
~~ floor. : to his former employer, provided
Their chiffioner drawers so untidy, and Mike don’t die in the interim. Yes,
think ! sir, this horseman thinks a lot of
Near suits of white duck I found bot- Mike, but not so much he's willin’
tles of ink, to pay his board an’ lodgin’ at a
With roller skates, brushes, and oftena ganatorium; an’ as the doctors say
shirt— Mike must seek a warm, dry, high
Each one always open collecting the altitude an’ sleep out o' doors, Bill
dirt. Calkins falls heir to. him.
Soap floating in basins, gum stuck to Now, an extra mouth to feed an’
the glass, 'an extra bed for his Chinese house-'
While gone every handle of bright polish- keeper an’ cook to make up daily
ed brass don't annoy Bill Calkins none.
Their mothers implore them to try and Hogpitality's a religion with him,
be neat. ,an’' even if he'd been offered money
They'll say, “Yes, I will” andfly into, for Mike's board an’ lodgin’ he
the street. ' wouldn't have accepted it. In fact,
But lo] Hopsy-turvy land sends out a he’d have resented the offer an’
1 witch | reminded the feller he was runnin’,
Whose name is ‘‘Bad Habit” and ecar-
ries a switch
She rides on the back of a fierce look-
ing bat
And whisks them away without even a
hat.
“Tis only the untidy boys, understand,
She'll carry while sleeping to Bad Habit
Land.
Now as for the girls,
sight,
With clothes scattered ‘round where they
left them last night.
New bows of silk ribbon of black, brown
and blue
Are thrown in a corner beside a soiled
shoe.
In top drawers are brushes and combs
filled with hair,
Clean belts and kid gloves near an old
Teddy bear.
Their fine bureau silver is tarnished
black,
While pretty white shirt
pinned in the back,
Their tooth brush and slippers are
thrown on the floor,
I'm really ashamed to betray any more.
Though carelsss, they sleep most- serene-
ly and bland
*Till, they, too,
their rooms are a
and
waists are
are taken to Bad Habit
Land.
And once they arrive there—now mind
what I say:
Forever and ever and ever they'll stay.
Poor father and mother may beg on
each knee,
They're held by Bad Habits and cannot
get free,
They're prisoners for life, little girls,
and what's more,
They're kept in a place with a strong
iron door,
And there they may linger like little
caged rabbits,
Beware then each child, of the land of
“Bad Habits.”
BLOOD WILL TELL!
Old Dad Tully, proprietor of the
70 Ranch, laid aside his newspaper
and gazed thoughtfully and a little
wistfully out across tem thousand
acres of green meadow. ‘A horse!
a horse!” he murmured, “my Kking-
dom for a horse.” He turned to
me. “Who was the cuss that got off
that line?”
I ventured to remind him that the
Bard of Avon had placed that line
in the mouth of King Richard III.
“An’ that was in a day when the
thoroughbred was unknown,” the old
cattleman resumed. “They raised
horses for utlitarian purposes then,
You'd think old King Richard, well
konwin’ he, like all fightin’ men
might need a brisk horse in a hur-
ry some day, would have set about
breedin’ somethin’ faster than the
big Normans an’ Percherons the
knights had to ride, if they wastc
carry all their armor with them.
“It's a far cry, as the poet says,
from King Richard's day to the
present; yet it ain't more'n ten
years since our cavalry people woke
up to the fact that this branch o’
the military service, aimin’ to be
mobile, aint’ as mobile as it ought
to be. But they're rapidly gettin’ it
mobiler.”
“How?” I queried.
“By refusing to buy scrub horses
an’ breedin’ for not less than half
thoroughbreds. I beat the United
States cavalry to that idea by about
a year, but I don't take no credit
to myself for it. It was Mike Dolan
that put that useful thought over on
me—An I've just been thinkin’ of
Mike—readin’ in the paper about
how Gallant Fox won the Preak-
ness, an’ then come back two weeks
later an’ won the Derby.
“Me an’ Mike used to dream ©’
breedin’ a horse that would win the
Derby, but Mike Dolan’s dead an’
gone, an’ all I have left to remind
me of him is a couple o’ hundred
head of half an’ three-quarter
thoroughbred young horses runnin’
wild on my range against the day
when the officer from the Remount
Service comes up to trade me out
of the tops of them. There aint’ a
cent of profit rasin’ horses for our
government, but I suppose it’s up to
some of us to help the cavalry peo-
ple out, even if we only break even
doin’ it.
“At that, my orders to my book-
keeper are not to be too dog-goned
accurate; in the horse accountin’;
I'm afraid I might run into alittle
red ink, an’ what I don’t know will
never trouble me. As the feller
says. a little knowledge is a dan-
gerous thing, although
thoroughly realized it until I met
up with Mike Dolan an’ learn about
horses from him.”
Along about 1915, I think it was
(Dad continued) I received a letter
from a fellow cattleman name ©0’
Bill Calkins. Bill an’ me used to
ride the range together down in
New Mexico in the days when our
greatest ambition run to ownin’ a
hat that cost 8 hundred an’ fifty
dollars. Bill informs me he is send-,
in’ to me, F. O. B. ranch, the per-
son of one Mike Dolan, a friend of
a friend of a friend of his an’ pres-
ently, to be a friend of mine.
This friend thrice removed an’
gettin’ further (accordin’ to Bill
'farm down in Kentucky an’ runs
race horses. Mike Dolan is his
jockey, an’ from all Bill has heen
able to learn, Mike is so good his
' cattle, not a hotel.
Bill informs me Mike has stuck it
‘out a month at his ranch, all the
| time gettin’ weaker an’ weaker.
Finally he makes an open confession
'to Bill Calkins. He tells Bill the
‘climate is just right for him but
' cow-ranch grub aint. on account of
| runnin’ too high in starches an’
too low in variety.
Bill never did have truck with
, chickens an’ the ranch is too far
| from town to admit of a constant
supply of fresh eggs an’ vegetables.
| Also, bein’ an old-time cow-outfit,
butter, milk an’ cream ain't to be
| found on it, nor is there a man on
| the payroll low enough to break a
| cow-brute to milk. A beef critter
"is always a worry but a mlich cow
{is sure depressin’, because she can't
| be neglected. Night an’ mornin’
| she’s got to be milked.
Lackin’ a balanced diet, there-
fore, Mike Dolan is just naturally
slippin’ further an’ further down the
| puny list; finally he grows desperate
an’ tells his host about it, at the
{same time admittin’ he don’t know
what he's goin’ to do about it, be-
cause he can’t leave on account he's
so broke he rattles when he rolls
(over in bed.
In his honor of calamity Bill Calk-
ins remembers me. Also, havin’
visited me once, he knows my cook,
| Zing, swings a mean skillet; that
the said Zing further maintains a
family vegetable garden; that I
tolerate hens on the 70 Ranch an’
keep two fresh Guernsey cows on
hand for family use; that I discov-
|ered in my middle years that good
"beds are obtainable if you pay the
| price. an’ that the climate here is
good for man or beast.
| Wherefore, he’s about to buy Mike
| Dolan a one-way ticket to my ship-
{ pin’ point an’ asks me to meet him
ian’ be good to him because Mike is
! certainly one nice little feller an’ no
| mistake, an’ all courtesies accorded
‘him will be the same as accorded
'to yours faithfully, Bill Calkins.
| Which this low-flung Bill ain't so
| much as sentme a picture post card.
iin ten years!
{| The day Mike is due I get into
my old car an’ go down to the rail-
‘road to meet him an’ my heart sure
goes out to him, a little quarter-
portion of a boy about twen-
ty-eight years old but lookin’
forty. He has a little round
homely face like a Waterbury
clock, only more intelligent, an’
just as white an’ free from guile.
It's framed
burn hair, the shade that women go
crazy over, an’ he has black eye-
brows an’ black eyelashes an’ big
prown eyes like a dyin’ deer’s. But
there’s grit an’ humor in them eyes
an’ a smile that never left them
until the day he found himself too
broke to buy oats for his horse.
When he grins his shy wistful
grin one sees a flash o’ fine white
i
teeth, an’ then, sick as he is, the
little feller is almos’ beautiful to
look at.
Yes, sir, what Mike Dolan has—
what’ radiates an’ sparkles from
him—is honesty an’ personality an’
magnetism, which, added to his
fragility, awakens in me a whole lot
of doramnt paternalism.
The colored porter carries him
off the train in his arms an’ sets
him down on the platform in front
of me,
“Hello, Mike, you young wallop-
er,” says I, wishin’ to make the
boy feel to home an’ welcome as
an early fall rain in a dry year.
“Welcome to the 70 Ranch.”
“Hello, Mr. Tully,” he pipes back.
“Thanks for the welcome, more
particular since there ain’t no sound
reason for it.” He give me a long
searchin’ look an’ shook his head.
“Strange as it may seem, this old
boy's real” he says to himself. “I
reckon there must be a God, after
all.” Then he shoves his frail little
paw into mine. “Mr. Tully, it’s
most awful’ kind of you to take
me in, an’ you not knowin’ me from
a saddle. An’ I do appreciate you
meetin’ me yourself. I ' figgered
your time would be so valuable
you'd send a hired man.”
“Hell's fire, Mike,” I says, ‘you're
my guest, an’ a friend of a friend
of a friend o’ mine; Welcome to
the 70 Ranch a second time.”
“sPhanks, Mr. Tully. I'll make
| myself to home, but I won't be
| presumin’ long on your hospitality.”
1 never |
| “Where you headed for next?”
| Like a fool I dont get his meanin’.
| “For the potter’s field—if you got
one in these parts, Mr. Tully.”
“Boy,” I says. “I wouldn’t bury
you in the potter's field on a bet.
I got my own private cemetery ufi-
der ‘a ‘nice weepin’ willer tree out
to the ranch. T got a horse buried
there now—my old top cuttin’ horse,
Delusion. I got a monument 'over
him an’ Tl plant you alongside him.
That's fair, ain’t it?"
in a thick mop of au-
1 —
“Was he a good horse, Mr. Tul
ly?”
Y ere was a thoroughbred, I had
papers on him, too, Mike. He was
just a niite too slow for a race
horse, so a friend o' mine give him
to me for a saddler.”
“A feller can’t ask no better com-
any than that, Mr. Tully,” sa
Rik. “Me, I'm a jockey an’ born
ina box stall. My teethin’ ring was
the end of a bat—what you'd call a
racin’ quirt.” An’ he looks up at me
with that winnin’ grin o’ his. “I
hate to be a nuisance, but would
you mind helpin’ me over to the
automobile? An’ if you don’t mind,
would you put some straw in the
tonneau so’s I can lie down on the
way to the ranch? I'm afraid Icant
set up on the seat beside you.” {
I was tore between a desire to
send Bill Calkins a dirty telegram
or one o thanks for sendin’ this
misfortunate boy to me. Not that
I'm so danged long on philanthropy
but because it would have hurt me
to see a stray dog up against it like
Mike Dolan was. i
Right then an’ there I make up.
my mind to take care o’ Mike an’
see him through an’ to tell the
truth, I was a mite glad o' the,
chance, even if it was a long one.
Bettin’ on long shots was always
my favorite diversion. .
So I carry Mike Dolan over to
the nearest saloon an’ buy him a
jolt o' whisky that was so good it
cost me two bits a drink. Then I
lay in a case of it for medicinal
purposes, together with a case of
old Portugee sherry, spread a foot
o’ sweet timothy hayin the tonneau
an’ drive him out here all nice an’
easy.
I don’t miss him up on the front
seat, however, because I have a
trained nurse sittin’ up there with
me. Yes, ve made up my mind
to get expensive. Beef was up
that year an’ I'd had an eighty-five
percent calf crop the two years
previous.
Well, sir, the trained nurse puts
Mike Dolan to bed out on the
screened veranda, where he can get
lots o' fresh air. She feeds him
eggnog an’ sherry an’ egg, an’ the
best of invalid grub, in addition to
givin’ him sponge baths an alcohol
rubs.
At the end of a month we lift
him out o’ bed an’ weigh him, an’
the boy's fleshed up all o two
pounds. So we keep him in bed
six months altogether an’ by that
time he’s quit coughin’ an’ weighs
a hundred an’ two which he ‘lows is
his regular ridin’ weight. So Ilet
him up an’ fire the nurse an’ sub-
stitute old Zing.
I never begrudged the money I
spent on Mike Dolan. He was the
best company I've ever had at the
ranch an’ that’s takin’ in a lot ©
territory. He never would run out
o’ stories, none of 'em snappy Or
vulgar an’ all of em sad or funny.
He'd been born an' brought upin a
world I mever knew nothin’ about;
he talked a language I had to learn
before I could understand what he
ment; an’ I learned about horses
from him,
Me, I thought I knew somethin’
about horses thirty years before
Mike Dolan was born. But I
didn’t. Mike judged every cayuse
on the ranch an’ faulted ’em all
I never knew I had such a collection 0’
nags with spavins, ringbone, splints
curbs an’ bad tendons until Mike
found ‘em an’ showed ’em to me.
I had two cow ponies I wouldn't
have sold for a thousand dollars
each, until Mike Dolan showed me
where they were no goood. A good
hoise to me is a horse that can do
his work cleverly an’ willin'lypstand
abuse an’ never pitch with me ex.
ceptin’ on frosty mornin's. To Mike
Dolan a good horse was a horse that
was bred in the purple an’, as a
two-year-old, could work an eighth
in eleven, a quarter in twenty-two an’
three-eighths in thirty-four an two-
fifths—or thereabuots.
Well, sir, as I say, Mike Dolan
without ever meanin’ to. made me
ashamed of every horse in my cab-
allada. I had a dozen chunky little
ropin’ horses that had hairy fetlocks,
showin’ a faint strain o' shire in ’'em,
but Lordy, how they could bust a
steer an’ hold him.
But Mike Dolan couldn’t even bear
to look at ’em. “Rubbish, Dad,”
says he; “all plain rubbish. Id
iather look at a donkey, because
a donkey's all of what he is, an’
you know exactly what he’s goin te
give you.”
I apologize an’ explain patiently
that usually a thoroughbreds blood
is too hot for cow work, to which
he ieplies that half a loaf is bet-
ter'n none an’ that if I have half-
thoroughberd cow horses each one’ll
do the work © two cold-blooded
horses an’ I won't have so many
mouths to feed. What I can’t use
myself, he allows I can sell to the
government for cavalry remounts.
He tells me how the Australian
cavalry horses in the Egyptian cam-
paign; bein’ walers, or half thor-
oughbreds, outfoot, outmarch, out.
thirst an’ underfeed the cold-blood-
ed mounts. They wasted slower in
campaign, lastin’ at least six weeks
longer, an’ they come back a month
sooner. An they had more intel-
ligence. !
The result of all this missionary
work is that presently I give Mike
a letter o’ credit an’ send him East
to pick me up a good thoroughbred
stallion that's been broke down
racin’, ‘but that don't affect him none
for breedin’ purposes. For a thous-
and for the right horse, but Mike
ain’t. Still, he spends all the let-
ter o credit an’ brings me back
three three-year-old mares that ain't
showed much on the race track.
But that don’t trouble Mike Dolan
none, although my foreman almost
dies when he learns o' my sinful ex-
travagance.
“Which all these here animals is
a gift,” says Mike. “Many a mare
that couldn't do a quarter faster'n
twenty-five has dropped colts that
broke world records when bred to the
right stallion. It's their breedin’
an’ conformation that I go on’ an’
these mares will drop big foals. An’
“They're big: mares, too, an’ aswe
expect the dam to give the offspring
fully sixty an’ maybe seventy per-
cent o’ the class they're born with,
you can just bet your ranch, Dad.
these mares will drop big foals. An’
no good little horse ever beat a good
big horse, at any distance over six
furlongs. You got to have a big
powerful horse to go a mile an’ a
quarter.”
“But I ain't wishful for runnin’
horses, Mike,” I explain. “The
big idea was to improve the quality
of our cow horses.”
“Which we'll do the same,” says
Mike. “You'll sure get some grand
stock horses. But we”ll raise some
thoroughbreds, too, an’ if we only
get one good horse out o' the lot,
this thoroughbred stock won't cost
on, I'm a fool.” :
Well, I couldn't get rid o' Mike,
because I liked him. Of course I'd
figgered that, now he was well again,
he’d go back to ridin’ runnin’ horses,
but I see now this ain’t his idea o’
the full life.
“I'm a good jockey,” says Mike,
“put I ain't so good owners are
fightin’ to buy my contract. The
money’s in breedin’ an'trainin’ horses
I can win with, an’ if this ain't a
grand ranch to breed blooded stock
I'm a fool.”
So I seen there was nothin’ else
to do but put Mike Dolan on the
pay roll at the wages of a top cow
hand. I might as well confess. too,
I'm curious as a pet coon to see
what comes of his experiment, par-
informs me he’s’
ticularly as he
picked the three mares to make a
perfect “nick” when bred to this
here stallion Moppe:up.
Mike don’t give me no rest. Ap-
parently he ain't a drivin’ me. No
sir, he just keeps on suggestin’
things, so it ain’t no time until I'm
suggested into settin’ aside a quar-
ter-section o' finest subirrigated
meadow on the 70 Ranch as a stud
farm. An’ a barbed-wire fence
won't do. No, sir; I got to put in
sixteen foot redwood posts with fine
heavy wire mesh the foals can’t get
their feet into or jump or get hurt
none if they run in to it.
The next thing I know I'm build-
in’ a barn with a dozen boxes an’
space upstairs for hay, besides a
separate stallion barn, an’ I'm in
twenty thousand dollars on the whole
shebang. Yes, sir, twenty thousand
dollars in assets I don’t need an’
don’t want, includin’ a room for
Mike, who won't sleep up to the
house no more.
Along in February an’ March of
the followin’ year I have eighteen
half thoroughbred foals an’ ‘three
that’s all thoroughbred. Mike don’t
even bother to look my foals over
a tall, although to my mind they're
the likeliest-lookin' to feel grateful
to Mike for suggestin’ them.
That stallion begets about seven-
ty percent liver-colored chestnuts,
which is a color I've always admir-
ed in a horse. Mike's youngsters
are all colts an’ big, but he loses
one of the . mares in colt birth, so
promptly, an’ without consultin’ me,
he knocks one o’' my half-bred fillies
on the head an’ steals the mare for
a foster mother, an’ Mike's happy
notwithstandin’ I've just lost a
thousand dollar mare.
“Dont’ worry, Dad,” says Mike.
“If this colt amounts to anythin’
he'll be worth ten of his mother.
It’s just a question o’ time.”
Well, them three colts prosper
like the green bay tree. Meanwhile
the two remainin’ mares are rebred
to Mopperup. From the day they're
dropped Mike is out in the field
monkeyin' an’ foolin’ around with
his three colts. They're a nibbin him
an’ rearin’ up an’ placin’ their little
legs on his shoulders an a-wallopin’
him from time to time with playful
kicks which he don’t mind.
He halter-breaks 'em when they're
three months old; he watches ’em
an’ guards ‘em like a mother, an’
when theyre eight months old he
weans ‘em. But does that mean
they stop drinkin’ milk? It does
not. Before I know it, Mike has
got me to order the foreman to break
three big, heavy milkin’ Hereford
cows to stand quiet while Zing milks
‘em, which Zing says milkin’ two
cows for them dog-goned colts ain't
accordin’ to Hoyle. So I have to
raise the heathen’s wages to quiet
him.
Mike, he cooks up every night a
hot mess for his coits—crushed oats,
a little wheat, handful o' coin an’
bran—an’ the warm milk in it, with
a few carrots, which we wouldn't
never have had no carrots if Zing
didn't plant ’em in my private yege-
table garden, whereat the heathen
kicks some more. Yes, sir, all the
peace an ’'quiet o’ my life is disturb-
ed by this demon, Mike Dolan—an’
I ain’t got the heart to hurt him.
Life ain’t been very kind to Mike
from birth, I gather, an’ he plumb is
happy now for the first time. It's
a terrible thing to destroy a feller
human’s happiness, but I come mighty
close to itwhen Mike starts honeyin’
me out o' gradin’ him a little three-
quater-mile private race track to
train his colts on. I got to put a
wood fence around that track, too,
an’ eighth poles an’ quarter poles an’
a timin’ stand, An’ I got to build
chuts to break ’em out of an’ import
a fancy startin’ gate an’ act as
starter.
When his colts are about sixteen
months old Mike starts breakin’ 'em.
It ain't scarcely no job atall. They
never buck once, which is an eye
opener to me, but this is on account
they've been handled since birth an’
know Mike Dolan for their friend.
First he gives 'em walkin’ exercise;
then he trots a little; finally he
walks, trots an’ canters.
Meanwhile, I been stuck for about
eight hundred dollars’ worth o' what
Mike calls tack, which is an exer-
cise saddle weighin’ seven pounds,
bandages, bits, headstalls, rollers,
blinders, standard martingales; night
cloths, coolin’ sheets an’ all the med-
icines in the world, in case his colts
get sick. After bringin’ 'em in from
the track he washes ’'em off with
warm water an’ a sponge, then he
scrapes the wet off'n 'em an’ rubs
‘em with somthin’ that smells like
bay rum.
Havin’ rubbed '’em he puts a blank-
et on ’em an’ walks ‘em fifty or six-
ty minutes around the * barn, which
, to jedge the colt.
horses that won't give you a good
has a porch built all around it so he
can walk ’em in wet weather. Havin’
cooled ’em out he grooms ‘em ’an
blankets ‘em an’ so on, ad libitum,
until the day's work is over,
which Mike stands .leanin’ in over
the half doors o’ the boxes admirin’
an’ dreamin’.
One day he tells me he's got te
have a stop watch, so I'm set back
fifty dollars more. Bein’ taught
how to clock a horse, I become of.
ficial timer, whilst breezin’ the colts,
an’ one mornin’ Mike says: “Dad,
we're goin’ to find out what we got
this morin’. I'm going to breeze
“Dad's Dandy’—he honored me by
namin one 0’ the colts that—“an
eighth.”
So he breezes Dad's Dandy an
eighth never lettin’ the colt all out,
an’ my stop watch says eleven an’
two-fifths, The next mornin’ we
breeze Old Folks, the half orphan,
an’ my watch says thirteen seconds.
The followin’ mornin’ we breeze
McGonningle, which he’s named for
my foreman, this bein’ Mike's final—
an’ successful—effort to win the fore:
man's approval. McGonnigle steps
the eighth in twelve, an’ Mike says
he’s satisfied, but has his doubts if
Old Folks will ever be more than a
sellin’ plater, although it's too soon
He says some
workout will catch pigeons, once
they're in competition.
Son, I smelt it comin’! In about
a week Mike says he'd ought to
have a good exercise boy so he can
ride McGonnigle in competition. I
almost have a fit when I discover
that exercise boy has to have a hun-
dred an’ twenty-five a month an’
board himself, or forty less than that
an’ eat ranch grub. I got to house
him free gratis, too, an’ I'm like
to have a strike on my hands, be-
cause I'm payin’ my foreman a hun-
dred an’ seventy-five a month, an’ he
rides all day, wearin’ out four horses
per diem.
However, Mike tells me the boy's
good an’ worth a hundred an’ fifty—
an’ then I know how-come racin’
stables isa luxury that only the rich
can afford. An’ by this time Mc-
Gonnigle has a little sister an’ Dad's
Dandy an’ Old Folks have each a
little brother, an’ come March I'll
own three more thoroughbred foals.
Time is flyin’ on winged hoofs, as
the fellers says, an’ I'm up to my
ears in the runnin’ horse business—
an’ beginnin’ to like it. Every time
I look at them beautiful colts an’
compare ‘em with my pot bellied,
knot-headed an’ misformed cold-
blooded cow ponies Iget a vision o
what Mike’s all het up about.
We're schoolin’ the colts at the
barrier now, an’ I'm enjoyin’ my job
of starter, whilst the foreman is now
timekeeper. We're workin’ 'em 8a
quarter now an’ McGonnigle does it
in twenty-two flat, which is a race
horse, believe you me. Old Folks
set down for a real race for a quarter
with Dad’s Dandy, can’t doitin bet-
ter'n twenty-three an’ a fifth to save
his life, while Dad's Dandy is step-
pin’ along in twenty-two an ’three-
fifths, which is another race horse.
Strange to say, Mike likes Dad's
Dandy best. so one day we have a
five-furlong match race, an’ ‘Dad's
Dandy noses McGonnigle out by a
whisker. And the exercise boy is
up on him!
About this time Mike Dolan gives
our blood stock ranch a new name.
First off, he calls it a farm. Then
he calls it Valle Verde Stock Farm,
because it’s in a green valley, an’
from that to Valle Verde Stable is
only a verbal jump. Somehow, it
all sounded rich an’ aristocratic to
me.
“Well, Dad,” says Mike Dolan one
mornin’ in early Feburary, “there
ain’t no sense in havin’ a racin’ stable
unless a feller races ‘em for profit.
How about shippin’ me down to Tia
Juana race track so we can see these
colts run in real company?”
There ain’t nothin’ to it. I'm
sold by now. . I got to see them colts
complete if it’s the last act o' my
life, so I have the railroad company
spot in a horse express car an’ we
load ’em in. I'm tellin’ you, son, if
you ever want to get a real pain in
the pocketbook, try shippin’ race
horses by express.
At Tia Juana Mire gets his li-
cense as trainer, Also, he renews
his license as jockey, an’ as I'm
afraid it'll hurt my credit with the
bank if it’s known I'm operatin’ a
racin’ stable an’ see a good chance
to get shut o’ the whole business, I
sell Mike the whole stable, mares,
stallion, foals an’ tack, for what I've
got in the game to date, which is
thirty-three thousand an’ forty-one
dollars and ninteen cents. Inasmuch
as Mike has no money I take his
note, secured by the horses, so he's
now owner, trainer an’ jockey. Not
bein’ altogether mean, I loan him a
thousand dollars to carry on with
until he can win some operatin’ cap-
ital on the track.
When, he’s there about two weeks
he wires me that he has McGonnigle
entered in a race for two-year-olds
that have never raced before on a
regular track. I wire him back toen- |
ter Dad's Dandy too, out 0’ compli-*
ment to me, because I got a notion
that colt is goin’ to be in the money.
So Mike does that an’ by the time
the race is to be run both horses
are in an’ the public has a chance
to bet the Valle Verde entry.
But the heaviest blow is still to
fall on me, son. The mornin’ be-
fore the race Mike Dolan begs me
to bet a thousand aorars for him on
the stable entry. I have visions o
| havin’ to go to my bank for a loan,
so bein’ weak, but not weak enough
to see a horse named for me runan’
me not have a bet down on him, I
fall for Mike's wiles. Then heen-
treats me with tears in his eyes to
spread five thousand more in the
books, if I can get three to one, an’
just before the race to lay another
thousand in the Pari-Mutuel ma-
chines.
I kick an’ buck an’ squeal all over
the tack room, but Mike talks an’
explains ap’ tells me what a cinch
it is—an’ in the end Iwire my bank
to wire me ten thousand dollars,
an’ after the money's been bet I
set up in the grand stand an’shiver
mil ———
after '
an’ cuss an’ tell this is ab-
solutely the last time an’ if that
Mike Dolan ever asks me for another
dollar I'll hire him killed.
Mike, who is up on McGonnigle,
waves to me as he's paradin’ past
the grand stand, an’ his cheerfulness
gives me courage. Then the race
is run, It's all a smear to me. I
get heart failure. There's three
horses bunched in front an’ it's any.
. body's race—so I close my eyes an’
groan.
When Iopen them again the num-
bers are up, an’ out or fifteen horses
in the field McGonnigle is first,
Dad's Dandy is second by half a
nose an’ I never was sufficiently in-
tersted to find out the name 0’ the
critter that came third. I'm still
settin' there tryin’ to figger out how
much I've won’ when Mike Dolan
comes up on the clushouse Veranda
an’ hugs me. Then he figgers out
my winin’s. T've made twenty-two
thousand dollars an still have my
ten thousand.
The follerin' day Mike Dolan comes
to me an’ hands me a check for what
he owes me. He'd won eighteen
thousand dollars in prize money.
I'd won him two to one in the ma-
chines, so that made twenty thous-
and, an’ he'd sold McGonnigle for
fifty thousand.
“Which his cannon bone is too
long,” Mike explains to me. “He'll
break down as a three-year-old if
they run him on a hard track—an’
yesterday, after the race, while he
wasn’t lame, he had a slight tem-
perature in his off leg an’ just the
tiniest little swellin’ It went down
again, but I thought best to sell him.
We got a full brother to him at
home,”
“So you're comin’ back to the
farm, Mike?” I says.
“Sure,” says Mike. “I'll send a
good man up to look after the year-
lin’s an’ I'll race until late in Sep-
tember, here there an’ yon. Then
I'll come back to train the young-
sters.”
“Well, Mike,” I says, “I'm out of
the runnin’ horse business an' I'm out
with a big interest yield on the in-
vestemnt. T'll forget the wear an’
tear on my conscience, but no mat-
ter how much money you make
racin’ horses I'll never sell you a
quarter-section out o’ my ranch. I'll
just let you use it free gratis until
you retire, with the provision that
when you got a horse that can win
you let me know. Me, I'm goin’
back to cows an’ experimentin’ with
them half-thoroughbred cow ponies.”
When Mike come back in the fall
he brought Dad's Dandy with him.
He'd won five races with Old Folks
an’ then sold him for twenty-five
hundred.
The follerin’. February he departs
for the races again, his hopes ain't
so high this time, He's still got
Dad’s Dandy an’ the horse is fit, but
he’s got one fllly an’ they're always
uncertain, whilst the two colts, while
good, ain't nothin’ to mortgage the
ranch to bet on. In order to help
out on expenses he ships three ton o’
goot oats hay from the ranch inthe
car with his four horses, hay bein’
dear in Baja, California. »
All durin’ the meetin’ at Tia Juana
I get letters from Mike, but no good
news. Finally I wire him as follows:
How come you can’t make a prof-
it. this year. You got exactly the
same blood you had last year. Please
explain in the interest of science.
Back came Mike's answer.
was just like Mike.
Dear Dad, I should have shipped
more hay and less horses,
Later I learned that Dad’s Dandy
had ben sick with one thing an’
another, an’ couldn’t be got fit in
time for racin’ at Tia Juana. An’
before he left the track Mike has
sold his other horses for whatever he
could get for ‘em; then he ships
back to Aurora, where he gets a lot
o' kiddin' on account he’s owner,
trainer an’ jockey of one horse, which
a single-horse stable rs known as a
badge horse, on account his owner
can always get an owner's badge
admittin’ him free to the track even
if his horse can’t win a race.
At Aurora he fits Dad's Dandy
again an’ as a thrue-year-old the
horse shows a big improvement.
Mike wins lots o 'races with him an’
it’s only due to bad racin’ luck when
Dad’s Dandy isn’t in the money.
He's a horse with shore stout can-
non bone an’ good knees; he has a
grand constitution an’ can stand up
under a lot o’ hard racin’, He has
a sweet disposition an’ the work don’t
sour him or set. him back. He's
the sort of horse that can supporta
It
‘stableful o’ sp:inters an’ sellin’platers
because he hes far better than aver-
age speed an’ runs consistently.
That year, while Mike was in
Chicago with Dad’s Dandy, his stal-
lion, Mopperup, got pneumonia an’
died. Then one of Mike's two re-
mainin’ mares aborted her foal an’
when the other mare foaled the lit-
tle one had one misshapen hoof.
However, there was another colt,
a full brother to McGonnigle, an’
two fillies ready to put into trainin’
in the fall, so Mike was hopeful.
However, bad luck always comes in
bunches. The colt ran into a fence
an ‘broke his neck an’ the fillies
got distemper. It hung on three
months an’ stunted 'em considerably;
they couldn't be got ready to race
until the followin’ March, an’ then
they weren't worth tryin’ with.
The two remainin’ brood mares
did not breed that year an’ Mike
was discouraged. So he sold off his
mares an’ young stuff an' bade me
good-by.
“If I can make a killin’ with Dad’s
Dandy an’ get a hundred thousand
dollars together T'll restock the
farm,” he said at partin’. Tll race
Dad’s Dandy until he breaks down;
then I'll retire him to the stud an’
try to pick up a few good mares for
him.’
He didn't come back that fall,
after the last meetin’ in Chicago,
Him an’ Dad's Dandy shipped to
Miami an’ over to Cuba, but they
come back to Tia Juana in the spring
so Dad's Dandy could run in the
Coffroth Handicap, which was worth
about seventy-five thousand dollars
(Continued on page 38, Col.3.)