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Updated: May 2, 2025
"Well, never mind just when it happened," I said. "Tell me about it." "All right," said Blister. "Like I've just said it happens one winter at New Awlins, the year after I starts conditionin' hosses. "Things break bad fur me that winter. Whenever a piker can't win a bet he comes 'round, slaps me on the wrist, 'n' separates me from some of my kale.
It'll be a good riddance." "Were you ever ruled off the track?" I asked Blister, as the boy, exhaling clouds of cigarette smoke, returned to the slow walking of his horse. He studied in silence a moment. "Yep once," he replied. "I got mine at New Awlins fur ringin' a hoss. That little ole town has got my goat." "When was this?" I asked. "The year I first starts conditionin' hosses," he answered.
It's muscle and wind we need at our trade in Ireland, and neither can be more than half diviloped in the few weeks' light conditionin' work that all English and most American cross-country riders give their hunters. Steady gruellin' work is what it takes to toughen sinews and expand lungs, and it's the Irish huntsman that knows it.
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