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Ferguson + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Garrison's Finish, by W. B. M. Ferguson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Garrison's Finish + A Romance of the Race-Course + +Author: W. B. M. Ferguson + +Release Date: March 31, 2006 [EBook #2989] +Last Updated: March 15, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GARRISON'S FINISH *** + + + + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + GARRISON'S FINISH, <br /> <br /> A ROMANCE OF THE RACE-COURSE + </h1> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by W. B. M. Ferguson + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <h3> + A SHATTERED IDOL. + </h3> + <p> + As he made his way out of the paddock Garrison carefully tilted his bag of + Durham into the curved rice-paper held between nicotine-stained finger and + thumb, then deftly rolled his “smoke” with the thumb and forefinger, while + tying the bag with practised right hand and even white teeth. Once his + reputation had been as spotless as those teeth. + </p> + <p> + He smiled cynically as he shouldered his way through the slowly moving + crowd—that kaleidoscope of the humanities which congregate but do + not blend; which coagulate wherever the trial of science, speed, and + stamina serves as an excuse for putting fortune to the test. + </p> + <p> + It was a cynical crowd, a quiet crowd, a sullen crowd. Those who had won, + through sheer luck, bottled their joy until they could give it vent in a + safer atmosphere—one not so resentful. For it had been a hard day + for the field. The favorite beaten in the stretch, choked off, outside the + money—— + </p> + <p> + Garrison gasped as the rushing simulacra of the Carter Handicap surged to + his beating brain; that brain at bursting pressure. It had recorded so + many things—recorded faithfully so many, many things he would give + anything to forget. + </p> + <p> + He was choking, smothering—smothering with shame, hopelessness, + despair. He must get away; get away to breathe, to think; get away out of + it all; get away anywhere—oblivion. + </p> + <p> + To the jibes, the sneers flung at him, the innuendos, the open insults, + and worst of all, the sad looks of those few friends who gave their + friendship without conditions, he was not indifferent, though he seemed + so. God knows how he felt it at all. And all the more so because he had + once been so high. Now his fall was so low, so pitifully low; so + contemptible, so complete. + </p> + <p> + He knew what the action of the Jockey Club would be. The stewards would do + only one thing. His license would be revoked. To-day had seen his finish. + This, the ten-thousand dollar Carter Handicap, had seen his final slump to + the bottom of the scale. Worse. It had seen him a pauper, ostracized; an + unclean thing in the mouth of friend and foe alike. The sporting world was + through with him at last. And when the sporting world is through— + </p> + <p> + Again Garrison laughed harshly, puffing at his cigarette, dragging its + fumes into his lungs in a fierce desire to finish his physical cataclysm + with his moral. Yes, it had been his last chance. He, the popular idol, + had been going lower and lower in the scale, but the sporting world had + been loyal, as it always is to “class.” He had been “class,” and they had + stuck to him. + </p> + <p> + Then when he began to go back—No; worse. Not that. They said he had + gone crooked. That was it. Crooked as Doyers Street, they said; throwing + every race; standing in with his owner to trim the bookies, and they + couldn't stand for that. Sport was sport. But they had been loyal. They + had warned, implored, begged. What was the use soaking a pile by dirty + work? Why not ride straight—ride as he could, as he did, as it had + been bred in him to? Any money, any honor was his. Instead— + </p> + <p> + Garrison, stung to madness by retrospect, humped his way through the crowd + at the gates of the Aqueduct. There was not a friendly eye in that crowd. + He stuffed his ears with indifference. He would not bear their remarks as + they recognized him. He summoned all his nerve to look them in the face + unflinchingly—that nerve that had been frayed to ribbons. + </p> + <p> + And then he heard quick footsteps behind him; a hand was laid heavily on + his shoulder, and he was twisted about like a chip. It was his stable + owner, his face flushed with passion and drink. Waterbury was stingy of + cash, but not of words. + </p> + <p> + “I've looked for you,” he whipped out venomously, his large hands ravenous + for something to rend. “Now I've caught you. Who was in with you on that + dirty deal? Answer, you cur! Spit it out before the crowd. Was it me? Was + it me?” he reiterated in a frenzy, taking a step forward for each word, + his bad grammar coming equally to the fore. + </p> + <p> + The crowd surged back. Owner and jockey were face to face. “When thieves + fall out!” they thought; and they waited for the fun. Something was due + them. It came in a flash. Waterbury shot out his big fist, and little + Garrison thumped on the turf with a bang, a thin streamer of blood + threading its way down his gray-white face. + </p> + <p> + “You miserable little whelp!” howled his owner. “You've dishonored me. You + threw that race, damn you! That's what I get for giving you a chance when + you couldn't get a mount anywhere.” His long pent-up venom was unleashed. + “You threw it. You've tried to make me party to your dirty work—me, + me, me!”—he thumped his heaving chest. “But you can't heap your + filth on me. I'm done with you. You're a thief, a cur—” + </p> + <p> + “Hold on,” cut in Garrison. He had risen slowly, and was dabbing furtively + at his nose with a silk red-and-blue handkerchief—the Waterbury + colors. + </p> + <p> + “Just a minute,” he added, striving to keep his voice from sliding the + scale. He was horribly calm, but his gray eyes were quivering as was his + lip. “I didn't throw it. I—I didn't throw it. I was sick. I—I've + been sick. I—I——” Then, for he was only a boy with a + man's burdens, his lip began to quiver pitifully; his voice shrilled out + and his words came tumbling forth like lava; striving to make up by + passion and reiteration what they lacked in logic and coherency. “I'm not + a thief. I'm not. I'm honest. I don't know how it happened. Everything + became a blur in the stretch. You—you've called me a liar, Mr. + Waterbury. You've called me a thief. You struck me. I know you can lick + me,” he shrilled. “I'm dishonored—down and out. I know you can lick + me, but, by the Lord, you'll do it here and now! You'll fight me. I don't + like you. I never liked you. I don't like your face. I don't like your + hat, and here's your damn colors in your face.” He fiercely crumpled the + silk handkerchief and pushed it swiftly into Waterbury's glowering eye. + </p> + <p> + Instantly there was a mix-up. The crowd was blood-hungry. They had paid + for sport of some kind. There would be no crooked work in this deal. + Lustfully they watched. Then the inequality of the boy and the man was at + length borne in on them, and it roused their stagnant sense of fair play. + </p> + <p> + Garrison, a small hell let loose, had risen from the turf for the third + time! His face was a smear of blood, venom, and all the bandit passions. + Waterbury, the gentleman in him soaked by the taint of a foisted dishonor + and his fighting blood roused, waited with clenched fists. As Garrison + hopped in for the fourth time, the older man feinted quickly, and then + swung right and left savagely. + </p> + <p> + The blows were caught on the thick arm of a tan box-coat. A big hand was + placed over Waterbury's face and he was given a shove backward. He + staggered for a ridiculously long time, and then, after an unnecessary + waste of minutes, sat down. The tan overcoat stood over him. It was Jimmy + Drake, and the chameleonlike crowd applauded. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy was a popular book-maker with educated fists. The crowd surged + closer. It looked as if the fight might change from bantam-heavy to + heavy-heavy. And the odds were on Drake. + </p> + <p> + “If yeh want to fight kids,” said the book-maker, in his slow, drawling + voice, “wait till they're grown up. Mebbe then yeh'll change your mind.” + </p> + <p> + Waterbury was on his feet now. He let loose some vitriolic verbiage, using + Drake as the objective-point. He told him to mind his own business, or + that he would make it hot for him. He told him that Garrison was a thief + and cur; and that he would have no book-maker and tout— + </p> + <p> + “Hold on,” said Drake. “You're gettin' too flossy right there. When you + call me a tout you're exceedin' the speed limit.” He had an uncomfortable + steady blue eye and a face like a snow-shovel. “I stepped in here not to + argue morals, but to see fair play. If Billy Garrison's done dirt—and + I admit it looks close like it—I'll bet that your stable, either + trainer or owner, shared the mud-pie, all right—” + </p> + <p> + “I've stood enough of those slurs,” cried Waterbury, in a frenzy. “You + lie.” + </p> + <p> + Instantly Drake's large face stiffened like cement, and his overcoat was + on the ground. + </p> + <p> + “That's a fighting word where I come from,” he said grimly. + </p> + <p> + But before Drake could square the insult a crowd of Waterbury's friends + swirled up in an auto, and half a dozen peacemakers, mutual acquaintances, + together with two somnambulistic policemen, managed to preserve the + remains of the badly shattered peace. Drake sullenly resumed his coat, and + Waterbury was driven off, leaving a back draft of impolite adjectives and + vague threats against everybody. The crowd drifted away. It was a fitting + finish for the scotched Carter Handicap. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Garrison, taking advantage of the switching of the lime-light + from himself to Drake, had dodged to oblivion in the crowd. + </p> + <p> + “I guess I don't forget Jimmy Drake,” he mused grimly to himself. “He's + straight cotton. The only one who didn't give me the double-cross out and + out. Bud, Bud!” he declared to himself, “this is sure the wind-up. You've + struck bed-rock and the tide's coming in—hard. You're all to the + weeds. Buck up, buck up,” he growled savagely, in fierce contempt. + “What're you dripping about?” He had caught a tear burning its way to his + eyes—eyes that had never blinked under Waterbury's savage blows. + “What if you are ruled off! What if you are called a liar and crook; + thrown the game to soak a pile? What if you couldn't get a clotheshorse to + run in a potato-race? Buck up, buck up, and plug your cotton pipe. They + say you're a crook. Well, be one. Show 'em you don't care a damn. You're + down and out, anyway. What's honesty, anyway, but whether you got the + goods or ain't? Shake the bunch. Get out before you're kicked out. Open a + pool-room like all the has-beens and trim the suckers right, left, and + down the middle. Money's the whole thing. Get it. Don't mind how you do, + but just get it. You'll be honest enough for ten men then. Anyway, there's + no one cares a curse how you pan out—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, and his face slowly relaxed. The hard, vindictive look slowly + faded from his narrowed eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Sis,” he said softly. “Sis—I was going without saying good-by. + Forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + He swung on his heel, and with hunched shoulders made his way back to + Aqueduct. Waterbury's training-quarters were adjacent, and, after lurking + furtively about like some hunted animal, Garrison summoned all his nerve + and walked boldly in. + </p> + <p> + The only stable-boy about was one with a twisted mouth and flaming red + hair, which he was always curling; a remarkably thin youth he was, + addicted to green sweaters and sentimental songs. He was singing one now + in a key entirely original with himself. “Red's” characteristic was that + when happy he wore a face like a tomb-stone. When sad, the sentimental + songs were always in evidence. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Red!” said Garrison gruffly. He had been Red's idol once. He was + quite prepared now, however, to see the other side of the curtain. He was + no longer an idol to any one. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” returned Red non-committally. + </p> + <p> + “Where's Crimmins?” + </p> + <p> + “In there.” Red nodded to the left where were situated the stalls. + “Gettin' Sis ready for the Belmont opening.” + </p> + <p> + “Riding for him now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yeh. Promised a mount in th' next run-off. 'Bout time, I guess.” + </p> + <p> + There was silence. Garrison pictured to himself the time when he had won + his first mount. How long ago that was! Time is reckoned by events, not + years. How glorious the future had seemed! He slowly seated himself on a + box by the side of Red and laid a hand on the other's thin leg. + </p> + <p> + “Kid,” he said, and his voice quivered, “you know I wish you luck. It's a + great game—the greatest game in the world, if you play it right.” He + blundered to silence as his own condition surged over him. + </p> + <p> + Red was knocking out his shabby heels against the box in an agony of + confusion. Then he grew emboldened by the other's dejected mien. “No, I'd + never throw no race,” he said judicially. “It don't pay—” + </p> + <p> + “Red,” broke in Garrison harshly, “you don't believe I threw that race? + Honest, I'm square. Why, I was up on Sis—Sis whom I love, Red—honest, + I was sure of the race. Dead sure. I hadn't much money, but I played every + cent I had on her. I lost more than any one. I lost—everything. + See,” he ran on feverishly, glad of the opportunity to vindicate himself, + if only to a stable-boy. “I guess the stewards will let the race stand, + even if Waterbury does kick. Rogue won square enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Yeh, because yeh choked Sis off in th' stretch. She could ha' slept home + a winner, an' yeh know it, Billy,” said Red, with sullen regret. + </p> + <p> + There was a time when he never would have dared to call Garrison by his + Christian name. Disgrace is a great leveler. Red grew more conscious of + his own rectitude. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't knockin' yeh, Billy,” he continued, speaking slowly, to lengthen + the pleasure of thus monopolizing the pulpit. “What have I to say? Yeh can + ride rings round any jockey in the States—at least, yeh could.” And + then, like his kind, Red having nothing to say, proceeded to say it. + </p> + <p> + “But it weren't your first thrown race, Billy. Yeh know that. I know how + yeh doped it out. I know we ain't got much time to make a pile if we keep + at th' game. Makin' weight makes yeh a lunger. We all die of th' hurry-up + stunt. An' yeh're all right to your owner so long's yeh make good. After + that it's twenty-three, forty-six, double time for yours. I know what th' + game is when you've hit th' top of th' pile. It's a fast mob, an' yeh got + to keep up with th' band-wagon. You're makin' money fast and spendin' it + faster. Yeh think it'll never stop comin' your way. Yeh dip into + everythin'. Then yeh wake up some day without your pants, and yeh breeze + about to make th' coin again. There's a lot of wise eggs handin' out + crooked advice—they take the coin and you th' big stick. Yeh know, + neither Crimmins or the Old Man was in on your deals, but yeh had it all + framed up with outside guys. Yeh bled the field to soak a pile. See, + Bill,” he finished eloquently, “it weren't your first race.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, I know,” said Garrison grimly. “Cut it out. You don't understand, + and it's no good talking. When you have reached the top of the pile, Red, + you'll travel with as fast a mob as I did. But I never threw a race in my + life. That's on the level. Somehow I always get blind dizzy in the + stretch, and it passed when I crossed the post. I never knew when it was + coming on. I felt all right other times. I had to make the coin, as you + say, for I lived up to every cent I made. No, I never threw a race—Yes, + you can smile, Red,” he finished savagely. “Smile if your face wants + stretching. But that's straight. Maybe I've gone back. Maybe I'm all in. + Maybe I'm a crook. But there'll come a time, it may be one year, it may be + a hundred, when I'll come back—clean. I'll make good, and if you're + on the track, Red, I'll show you that Garrison can ride a harder, + straighter race than you or any one. This isn't my finish. There's a new + deal coming to me, and I'm going to see that I get it.” + </p> + <p> + Without heeding Red's pessimistic reply. Garrison turned on his heel and + entered the stall where Sis, the Carter Handicap favorite, was being boxed + for the coming Belmont opening. + </p> + <p> + Crimmins, the trainer, looked up sharply as Garrison entered. He was a + small, hard man, with a face like an ice-pick and eyes devoid of pupils, + which fact gave him a stony, blank expression. In fact, he had been + likened once, by Jimmy Drake, to a needle with two very sharp eyes, and + the simile was merited. But he was an excellent flesh handler; and + Waterbury, an old ex-bookie, knew what he was about when he appointed him + head of the stable. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Dan!” said Garrison, in the same tone he had used to greet Red. He + and the trainer had been thick, but it was a question whether that + thickness would still be there. Garrison, alone in the world since he had + run away from his home years ago, had no owner as most jockeys have, and + Crimmins had filled the position of mentor. In fact, he had trained him, + though Garrison's riding ability was not a foreign graft, but had been + bred in the bone. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” echoed Crimmins, coming forward. His manner was cordial, and + Garrison's frozen heart warmed. “Of course you'll quit the game,” ran on + the trainer, after an exchange of commonalities. “You're queered for good. + You couldn't get a mount anywhere. I ain't saying anything about your + pulling Sis, 'cause there ain't no use now. But you've got me and Mr. + Waterbury in trouble. It looked as if we were in on the deal. I should be + sore on you, Garrison, but I can't be. And why? Because Dan Crimmins has a + heart, and when he likes a man he likes him even if murder should come + 'atween. Dan Crimmins ain't a welcher. You've done me as dirty a deal as + one man could hand another, but instead of getting hunk, what does Dan + Crimmins do? Why, he agitates his brain thinking of a way for you to make + a good living, Bud. That's Dan Crimmins' way.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison was silent. He did not try to vindicate himself. He had given + that up as hopeless. He was thinking, oblivious to Crimmins' eulogy. + </p> + <p> + “Yeh,” continued the upright trainer; “that's Dan Crimmins' way. And after + much agitating of my brain I've hit on a good money-making scheme for you, + Bud.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” asked Garrison. + </p> + <p> + “Yeh.” And the trainer lowered his voice. “I know a man that's goin' to + buck the pool-rooms in New York. He needs a chap who knows the ropes—one + like you—and I gave him your name. I thought it would come in handy. + I saw your finish a long way off. This fellah's in the Western Union; an + operator with the pool-room lines. You can run the game. It's easy. See, + he holds back the returns, tipping you the winners, and you skin round and + lay the bets before he loosens up on the returns. It's easy money; easy + and sure.” + </p> + <p> + Again Garrison was silent. But now a smile was on his face. He had been + asking himself what was the use of honesty. + </p> + <p> + “What d'you say?” asked Crimmins, his head on one side, his small eyes + calculating. + </p> + <p> + The smile was still twisting Garrison's lip. “I was going to light out, + anyway,” he answered slowly. “I'll answer you when I say good-by to Sis.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. She's over there.” + </p> + <p> + The handlers fell back in silence as Garrison approached the filly. He was + softly humming the music-hall song, “Good-by, Sis.” With all his faults, + the handlers to a man liked Garrison. They knew how he had professed to + love the filly, and now they sensed that he would prefer to say his + farewell without an audience. Sis whinnied as Garrison raised her small + head and looked steadily into her soft, dark eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Sis,” he said slowly, “it's good-by. We've been pals, you and I; pals + since you were first foaled. You're the only girl I have; the only + sweetheart I have; the only one to say good-by to me. Do you care?” + </p> + <p> + The filly nuzzled at his shoulder. “I've done you dirt to-day,” continued + the boy a little unsteadily. “It was your race from the start. You know + it; I know it. I can't explain now, Sis, how it came about. But I didn't + go to do it. I didn't, girlie. You understand, don't you? I'll square that + deal some day, Sis. I'll come back and square it. Don't forget me. I won't + forget you—I can't. You don't think me a crook, Sis? Say you don't. + Say it,” he pleaded fiercely, raising her head. + </p> + <p> + The filly understood. She lipped his face, whinnying lovingly. In a moment + Garrison's nerve had been swept away, and, arms flung about the dark, + arched neck, he was sobbing his heart out on the glossy coat; sobbing like + a little child. + </p> + <p> + How long he stayed there, the filly nuzzling him like a mother, he did not + know. It seemed as if he had reached sanctuary after an aeon of chaos. He + had found love, understanding in a beast of the field. Where his fellow + man had withheld, the filly had given her all and questioned not. For Sis, + by Rex out of Reine, two-year filly, blooded stock, was a thoroughbred. + And a thoroughbred, be he man, beast, or bird, does not welch on his hand. + A stranger only in prosperity; a chum in adversity. He does not question; + he gives. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Crimmins, as Garrison slowly emerged from the stall, “you + take the partin' pretty next your skin. What's your answer to the game I + spoke of? Mulled it over? It don't take much thinking, I guess.” He was + paring his mourning fringed nails with great indifference. + </p> + <p> + “No, it doesn't take much thinking, Dan,” agreed Garrison slowly, his eyes + narrowed. “I'll rot first before I touch it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” The trainer raised his thick eyebrows and lowered his thin voice. + “Kind of tony, ain't yeh? Beggars can't be choosers.” + </p> + <p> + “They needn't be crooks, Dan. I know you meant it all right enough,” said + Garrison bitterly. “You think I'm crooked, and that I'd take anything—anything; + dirt of any kind, so long's there's money under it.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, sneeze!” said Crimmins savagely. Then he checked himself. “It ain't + my game. I only knew the man. There's nothing in it for me. Suit + yourself;” and he shrugged his shoulders. “It ain't Crimmins' way to hump + his services on any man. Take it or leave it.” + </p> + <p> + “You wanted me to go crooked, Dan,” said Garrison steadily. “Was it + friendship—” + </p> + <p> + “Huh! Wanted you to go crooked?” flashed the trainer with a sneer. “What + are y' talking about? Ain't yeh a welcher now? Ain't yeh crooked—hair, + teeth, an' skin?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean that, Dan?” Garrison's face was white. “You've trained me, and + yet you, too, believe I was in on those lost races? You know I lost every + cent on Sis—” + </p> + <p> + “It ain't one race, it's six,” snorted Crimmins. “It's Crimmins' way to + agitate his brain for a friend, but it ain't his way to be a plumb fool. + You can't shoot that bull con into me, Bud. I know you. I give you an + offer, friend and friend. You turn it down and 'cuse me of making you play + crooked. I'm done with you. It ain't Crimmins' way.” + </p> + <p> + Billy Garrison eyed his former trainer and mentor steadily for a long + time. His lip was quivering. + </p> + <p> + “Damn your way!” he said hoarsely at length, and turned on his heel. His + hands were deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched as he swung out of + the stable. He was humming over and over the old music-hall favorite, + “Good-by, Sis”—humming in a desperate effort to keep his nerve. + Billy Garrison had touched bottom in the depths. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <h3> + THE HEAVY HAND OF FATE. + </h3> + <p> + Garrison left Long Island for New York that night. When you are hard hit + the soul suffers a reflex-action. It recoils to its native soil. New York + was Garrison's home. He was a product of its sporting soil. He loved the + Great White Way. But he had drunk in the smell, the intoxication of the + track with his mother's milk. She had been from the South; the land of + straight women, straight men, straight living, straight riding. She had + brought blood—good, clean blood—to the Garrison-Loring entente + cordiale—a polite definition of a huge mistake. + </p> + <p> + From his mother Garrison had inherited his cool head, steady eye, and the + intuitive hands that could compel horse-flesh like a magnet. From her he + had inherited a peculiar recklessness and swift daring. From his father—well, + Garrison never liked to talk about his father. His mother was a memory; + his father a blank. He was a good-looking, bad-living sprig of a straight + family-tree. He had met his wife at the New Orleans track, where her + father, an amateur horse-owner, had two entries. And she had loved him. + There is good in every one. Perhaps she had discovered it in Garrison's + father where no one else had. + </p> + <p> + Her family threw her off—at least, when she came North with her + husband, she gradually dropped out of her home circle; dropped of her own + volition. Perhaps she was afraid that the good she had first discovered in + her husband had been seen through a magnifying-glass. Her life with + Garrison was a constant whirlwind of changing scene and fortune—the + perpetual merry—or sorry—go-round of a book-maker; going from + track to track, and from bad to worse. His friends said he was unlucky; + his enemies, that the only honest thing in him was his cough. He had + incipient consumption. So Mrs. Garrison's life, such as it was, had been + lived in a trunk—when it wasn't held for hotel bills—but she + had lived out her mistake gamely. + </p> + <p> + When the boy came—Billy—she thought Heaven had smiled upon her + at last. But it was only hell. Garrison loved his wife, for love is not a + quality possessed only by the virtuous. Sometimes the worst man can love + the most—in his selfish way. And Garrison resented the arrival of + Billy. He resented sharing his wife's affection with the boy. + </p> + <p> + In time he came to hate his son. Billy's education was chiefly + constitutional. There wasn't the money to pay for his education for any + length of time. His mother had to fight for it piecemeal. So he took his + education in capsules; receiving a dose in one city and jumping to another + for the next, according as a track opened. + </p> + <p> + He knew his father never cared for him, though his mother tried her best + to gloze over the indifference of her husband. But Billy understood and + resented it. He and his mother loved in secret. When she died, her mistake + lived out to the best of her ability, young Garrison promptly ran away + from his circulating home. He knew nothing of his father's people; nothing + of his mother's. He was a young derelict; his inherent sense of honor and + an instinctive desire for cleanliness kept him off the rocks. + </p> + <p> + The years between the time he left home and the period when he won his + first mount on the track, his natural birthright, Billy Garrison often + told himself he would never care to look back upon. He was young, and he + did not know that years of privation, of hardship, of semi-starvation—but + with an insistent ambition goading one on—are not years to eliminate + in retrospect. They are years to reverence. + </p> + <p> + He did not know that prosperity, not adversity, is the supreme test. And + when the supreme test came; when the goal was attained, and the golden sun + of wealth, fame, and honor beamed down upon him, little Billy Garrison was + found wanting. He was swamped by the flood. He went the way of many a + better, older, wiser man—the easy, rose-strewn way, big and broad + and scented, that ends in a bottomless abyss filled with bitter tears and + nauseating regrets; the abyss called, “It might have been.” + </p> + <p> + Where he had formerly shunned vice by reason of adversity and poverty + making it appear so naked, revolting, unclean, foreign to his state, + prosperity had now decked it out in her most sensuous, alluring garments. + Red's moral diatribe had been correct. Garrison had followed the + band-wagon to the finish, never asking where it might lead; never caring. + He had youth, reputation, money—he could never overdraw that + account. And so the modern pied piper played, and little Garrison blindly + danced to the music with the other fools; danced on and on until he was + swallowed up in the mountain. + </p> + <p> + Then he awoke too late, as they all awake; awoke to find that his vigor + had been sapped by early suppers and late breakfasts; his finances + depleted by slow horses and fast women; his nerve frayed to ribbons by + gambling. And then had come that awful morning when he first commenced to + cough. Would he, could he, ever forget it? + </p> + <p> + Billy Garrison huddled down now in the roaring train as he thought of it. + It was always before him, a demoniacal obsession—that morning when + he coughed, and a bright speck of arterial blood stood out like a tardy + danger-signal against the white of his handkerchief; it was leering at + him, saying: “I have been here always, but you have chosen to be blind.” + </p> + <p> + Consumption—the jockey's Old Man of the Sea—had arrived at + last. He had inherited the seeds from his father; he had assiduously + cultivated them by making weight against all laws of nature; by living + against laws of God and man. Now they had been punished as they always + are. Nature had struck, struck hard. + </p> + <p> + That had been the first warning, and Garrison did not heed it. Instead of + quitting the game, taking what little assets he had managed to save from + the holocaust, and living quietly, striving for a cure, he kicked over the + traces. The music of the pied piper was still in his ears; twisting his + brain. He gritted his teeth. He would not give in. He would show that he + was master. He would fight this insidious vitality vampire; fight and + conquer. + </p> + <p> + Besides, he had to make money. The thought of going back to a pittance a + year sickened him. That pittance had once been a fortune to him. But his + appetite had not been gorged, satiated; rather, it had the resilience of + crass youth; jumping the higher with every indulgence. It increased in + ratio with his income. He had no one to guide him; no one to compel advice + with a whip, if necessary. He knew it all. So he kept his curse secret. He + would pile up one more fortune, retain it this time, and then retire. But + nature had balked. The account—youth, reputation, money—was + overthrown at last. + </p> + <p> + Came a day when in the paddock Dan Crimmins had seen that fleck of + arterial blood on the handkerchief. Then Dan shared the secret. He + commenced to doctor Garrison. Before every race the jockey had a drug. But + despite it he rode worse than an exercise-boy; rode despicably. The Carter + Handicap had finished his deal. And with it Garrison had lost his + reputation. + </p> + <p> + He had done many things in his mad years of prosperity—the mistakes, + the faults of youth. But Billy Garrison was right when he said he was + square. He never threw a race in his life. Horseflesh, the “game,” was + sacred to him. He had gone wild, but never crooked. But the world now said + otherwise, and it is only the knave, the saint, and the fool who never + heed what the world says. + </p> + <p> + And so at twenty-two, when the average young man is leaving college for + the real taste of life, little Garrison had drained it to the dregs; the + lees tasted bitter in his mouth. + </p> + <p> + For obvious reasons Garrison had not chosen his usual haven, the + smoking-car, on the train. It was filled to overflowing from the Aqueduct + track, and he knew that his name would be mentioned frequently and in no + complimentary manner. His soul had been stripped bare, sensitive to a + breath. It would writhe under the mild compassion of a former admirer as + much as it would under the open jibes of his enemies. He had plenty of + enemies. Every “is,” “has-been,” “would-be,” “will-be” has enemies. It is + well they have. Nothing is lost in nature. Enemies make you; not your + friends. + </p> + <p> + Garrison had selected a car next to the smoker and occupied a seat at the + forward end, his back to the engine. His hands were deep in his pockets, + his shoulders hunched, his eyes staring straight ahead under the brim of + his slouch-hat. His eyes were looking inward, not outward; they did not + see his surroundings; they were looking in on the ruin of his life. + </p> + <p> + The present, the future, did not exist; only the past lived—lived + with all the animalism of a rank growth. He was too far in the depths to + even think of reerecting his life's structure. His cough was troubling + him; his brain throbbing, throbbing. + </p> + <p> + Then, imperceptibly, as Garrison's staring, blank eyes slowly turned from + within to without, occasioned by a violent jolt of the train, something + flashed across their retina; they became focused, and a message was wired + to his brain. Instantly his eyes dropped, and he fidgeted uncomfortably in + his seat. + </p> + <p> + He found he had been staring into a pair of slate-gray eyes; staring long, + rudely, without knowing it. Their owner was occupying a seat three removed + down the aisle. As he was seated with his back to the engine, he was thus + confronting them. + </p> + <p> + She was a young girl with indefinite hair, white skin coated with tan, and + a very steady gaze. She would always be remembered for her eyes. Garrison + instantly decided that they were beautiful. He furtively peered up from + under his hat. She was still looking at him fixedly without the slightest + embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + Garrison was not susceptible to the eternal feminine. He was old with a + boy's face. Yet he found himself taking snap-shots at the girl opposite. + She was reading now. Unwittingly he tried to criticize every feature. He + could not. It was true that they were far from being regular; her nose + went up like her short upper lip; her chin and under lip said that she had + a temper and a will of her own. He noted also that she had a mole under + her left eye. But one always returned from the facial peregrinations to + her eyes. After a long stare Garrison caught himself wishing that he could + kiss those eyes. That threw him into a panic. + </p> + <p> + “Be sad, be sad,” he advised himself gruffly. “What right have you to + think? You're rude to stare, even if she is a queen. She wouldn't wipe her + boots on you.” + </p> + <p> + Having convinced himself that he should not think, Garrison promptly + proceeded to speculate. How tall was she? He likened her flexible figure + to Sis. Sis was his criterion. Then, for the brain is a queer actor, + playing clown when it should play tragedian, Garrison discovered that he + was wishing that the girl would not be taller than his own five feet two. + </p> + <p> + “As if it mattered a curse,” he laughed contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + His eyes were transferred to the door. It had opened, and with the puff of + following wind there came a crowd of men, emerging like specters from the + blue haze of the smoker. They had evidently been “smoked out.” Some of + them were sober. + </p> + <p> + Garrison half-lowered his head as the crowd entered. He did not wish to be + recognized. The men, laughing noisily, crowded into what seats were + unoccupied. There was one man more than the available space, and he + started to occupy the half-vacant seat beside the girl with the + slate-colored eyes. He was slightly more than fat, and the process of + making four feet go into two was well under way when the girl spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, this seat is reserved.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't look like it,” said Behemoth. + </p> + <p> + “But I say it is. Isn't that enough?” + </p> + <p> + “Full house; no reserved seats,” observed the man placidly, squeezing in. + </p> + <p> + The girl flashed a look at him and then was silent. A spot of red was + showing through the tan on her cheek; Garrison was watching her under his + hat-brim. He saw the spot on her cheeks slowly grow and her eyes commence + to harden. He saw that she was being annoyed surreptitiously and quietly. + Behemoth was a Strephon, and he thought that he had found his Chloe. + </p> + <p> + Garrison pulled his hat well down over his face, rose negligently, and + entered the next car. He waited there a moment and then returned. He swung + down the aisle. As he approached the girl he saw her draw back. Strephon's + foot was deliberately pressing Chloe's. + </p> + <p> + Garrison avoided a scene for the girl's sake. He tapped the man on the + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me. My seat, if you please. I left it for the smoker.” + </p> + <p> + The man looked up, met Garrison's cold, steady eyes, rose awkwardly, + muttered something about not knowing it was reserved, and squeezed in with + two of his companions farther down the aisle. + </p> + <p> + Garrison sat down without glancing at the girl. He became absorbed in the + morning paper—twelve hours old. + </p> + <p> + Silence ensued. The girl had understood the fabrication instantly. She + waited, her antagonism roused, to see whether Garrison would try to take + advantage of his courtesy. When he was entirely oblivious of her presence + she commenced to inspect him covertly out of the corners of her gray eyes. + After five minutes she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she said simply. Her voice was soft and throaty. + </p> + <p> + Garrison absently raised his hat and was about to resume the defunct paper + when he was interrupted. A hand reached over the back of the seat, and + before he had thought of resistance, he was flung violently down the + aisle. + </p> + <p> + He heard a great laugh from the Behemoth's friends. He rose slowly, his + fighting blood up. Then he became aware that his ejector was not one of + the crowd, but a newcomer; a tall man with a fierce white mustache and + imperial; dressed in a frock coat and wide, black slouch hat. He was + talking. + </p> + <p> + “How dare you insult my daughter, suh?” he thundered. “By thunder, suh, + I've a good mind to make you smart right proper for your lack of manners, + suh! How dare you, suh? You—you contemptible little—little + snail, suh! Snail, suh!” And quite satisfied at thus selecting the most + fitting word, glaring fiercely and twisting his white mustache and + imperial with a very martial air, he seated himself majestically by his + daughter. + </p> + <p> + Garrison recognized him. He was Colonel Desha, of Kentucky, whose horse, + Rogue, had won the Carter Handicap through Garrison's poor riding of the + favorite, Sis. His daughter was expostulating with him, trying to insert + the true version of the affair between her father's peppery exclamations + of “Occupying my seat!” “I saw him raise his hat to you!” “How dare he?” + “Complain to the management against these outrageous flirts!” “Abominable + manners!” etc., etc. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Garrison had silently walked into the smoker. He tried to + dismiss the incident from his mind, but it stuck; stuck as did the girl's + eyes. + </p> + <p> + At the next station a newsboy entered the car. Garrison idly bought a + paper. It was full of the Carter Handicap, giving both Crimmins' and + Waterbury's version of the affair. Public opinion, it seemed, was with + them. They had protested the race. It had been thrown, and Garrison's + dishonor now was national. + </p> + <p> + There was a column of double-leaded type on the first page, run in after + the making up of the paper's body, and Garrison's bitter eyes negligently + scanned it. But at the first word he straightened up as if an electric + shock had passed through him. + </p> + <p> + “Favorite for the Carter Handicap Poisoned,” was the great, staring title. + The details were meager; brutally meager. They were to the effect that + some one had gained access to the Waterbury stable and had fed Sis + strychnine. + </p> + <p> + Garrison crumpled up the paper and buried his face in his hands, making no + pretense of hiding his misery. She had been more than a horse to him; she + had been everything. + </p> + <p> + “Sis—Sis,” he whispered over and over again, the tears burning to + his eyes, his throat choking: “I didn't get a chance to square the deal. + Sis—Sis it was good-by—good-by forever.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <h3> + BEGINNING A NEW LIFE. + </h3> + <p> + On arriving at the Thirty-fourth Street ferry Garrison idly boarded a + Forty-second Street car, drifting aimlessly with the main body of Long + Island passengers going westward to disintegrate, scatter like the + fragments of a bursting bomb, at Broadway. A vague sense of + proprietorship, the kiss of home, momentarily smoothed out the wrinkles in + his soul as the lights of the Great White Way beamed down a welcome upon + him. Then it was slowly borne in on him that, though with the crowd, he + was not of it. His mother, the great cosmopolitan city, had repudiated + him. For Broadway is a place for presents or futures; she has no welcome + for pasts. With her, charity begins at home—and stays there. + </p> + <p> + Garrison drifted hither and thither with every cross eddy of humanity, and + finally dropped into the steady pulsating, ever-moving tide on the west + curb going south—the ever restless tide that never seems to reach + the open sea. As he passed one well-known café after another his mind + carried him back over the waste stretch of “It might have been” to the + time when he was their central figure. On every block he met acquaintances + who had even toasted him—with his own wine; toasted him as the + kingpin. Now they either nodded absently or became suddenly vitally + interested in a show-window or the new moon. + </p> + <p> + All sorts and conditions of men comprised that list of former friends, and + not one now stepped out and wrung his hand; wrung it as they had only the + other day, when they thought he would retrieve his fortunes by pulling off + the Carter Handicap. They did not wring it now, for there was nothing to + wring out of it. Now he was not only hopelessly down in the muck of + poverty, but hopelessly dishonored. And gentlemanly appearing blackguards, + who had left all honesty in the cradle, now wouldn't for the world be seen + talking on Broadway to little Billy Garrison, the horribly crooked jockey. + </p> + <p> + It wouldn't do at all. First, because their own position was so precarious + that a breath would send it tottering. Secondly, because Billy might + happen to inconveniently remember all the sums of money he had “loaned” + them time and again. Actual necessity might tend to waken his memory. For + they had modernized the proverb into: “A friend in need is a friend to + steer clear of.” + </p> + <p> + A lesson in mankind and the making had been coming to Garrison, and in + that short walk down Broadway he appreciated it to the uttermost. + </p> + <p> + “Think I had the mange or the plague,” he mused grimly, as a plethoric + ex-alderman passed and absent-mindedly forgot to return his bow—an + alderman who had been tipped by Garrison in his palmy days to a small + fortune. “What if I had thrown the race?” he ran on bitterly. “Many a + jockey has, and has lived to tell it. No, there's more behind it all than + that. I've passed sports who wouldn't turn me down for that. But I suppose + Bender” (the plethoric alderman) “staked a pot on Sis, she being the + favorite and I up. And when he loses he forgets the times I tipped him to + win. Poor old Sis!” he added softly, as the fact of her poisoning swept + over him. “The only thing that cared for me—gone! I'm down on my + luck—hard. And it's not over yet. I feel it in the air. There's + another fall coming to me.” + </p> + <p> + He shivered through sheer nervous exhaustion, though the night was warm + for mid-April. He rummaged in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “One dollar in bird-seed,” he mused grimly, counting the coins under the + violet glare of a neighboring arc light. “All that's between me and the + morgue. Did I ever think it would come to that? Well, I need a bracer. + Here goes ten for a drink. Can only afford bar whisky.” + </p> + <p> + He was standing on the corner of Twenty-fifth Street, and unconsciously he + turned into the café of the Hoffman House. How well he knew its every + square inch! It was filled with the usual sporting crowd, and Garrison + entered as nonchalantly as if his arrival would merit the same commotion + as in the long ago. He no longer cared. His depression had dropped from + him. The lights, the atmosphere, the topics of conversation, discussion, + caused his blood to flow like lava through his veins. This was home, and + all else was forgotten. He was not the discarded jockey, but Billy + Garrison, whose name on the turf was one to conjure with. + </p> + <p> + And then, even as he had awakened from his dream on Broadway, he now awoke + to an appreciation of the immensity of his fall from grace. He knew fully + two-thirds of those present. Some there were who nodded, some kindly, some + pityingly. Some there were who cut him dead, deliberately turning their + backs or accurately looking through the top of his hat. + </p> + <p> + Billy's square chin went up to a point and his under lip came out. He + would not be driven out. He would show them. He was as honest as any + there; more honest than many; more foolish than all. He ordered a drink + and seated himself by a table, indifferently eyeing the shifting crowd + through the fluttering curtain of tobacco-smoke. + </p> + <p> + The staple subject of conversation was the Carter Handicap, and he sensed + rather than noted the glances of the crowd as they shifted curiously to + him and back again. At first he pretended not to notice them, but after a + certain length of time his oblivion was sincere, for retrospect came and + claimed him for its own. + </p> + <p> + He was aroused by footsteps behind him; they wavered, stopped, and a large + hand was laid on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, kid! You here, too?” + </p> + <p> + He looked up quickly, though he knew the voice. It was Jimmy Drake, and he + was looking down at him, a queer gleam in his inscrutable eyes. Garrison + nodded without speaking. He noticed that the book-maker had not offered to + shake hands, and the knowledge stung. The crowd was watching them + curiously, and Drake waved off, with a late sporting extra he carried, + half a dozen invitations to liquidate. + </p> + <p> + “Kid,” he said, lowering his voice, his hand still on Garrison's shoulder, + “what did you come here for? Why don't you get away? Waterbury may be here + any minute.” + </p> + <p> + “What's that to me?” spat out Billy venomously. “I'm not afraid of him. No + call to be.” + </p> + <p> + Drake considered, the queer look still in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Don't get busty, kid. I don't know how you ever come to do it, but it's a + serious game, a dirty game, and I guess it may mean jail for you, all + right.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” Garrison's pinched face had gone slowly white. A vague + premonition of impending further disaster possessed him, amounting almost + to an obsession. “What do you mean, Jimmy?” he reiterated tensely. + </p> + <p> + Drake was silent, still scrutinizing him. + </p> + <p> + “Kid,” he said finally, “I don't like to think it of you—but I know + what made you do it. You were sore on Waterbury; sore for losing. You + wanted to get hunk on something. But I tell you, kid, there's no deal too + rotten for a man who poisons a horse—” + </p> + <p> + “Poisons a horse,” echoed Garrison mechanically. “Poisons a horse. Good + Lord, Drake!” he cried fiercely, in a sudden wave of passion and + understanding, jumping from his chair, “you dare to say that I poisoned + Sis! You dare—” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don't. The paper does.” + </p> + <p> + “The paper lies! Lies, do you hear? Let me see it! Let me see it! Where + does it say that? Where, where? Show it to me if you can! Show it to me—” + </p> + <p> + His eyes slowly widened in horror, and his mouth remained agape, as he + hastily scanned the contents of an article in big type on the first page. + Then the extra dropped from his nerveless fingers, and he mechanically + seated himself at the table, his eyes vacant. To his surprise, he was + horribly calm. Simply his nerves had snapped; they could torture him no + longer by stretching. + </p> + <p> + “It's not enough to have—have her die, but I must be her poisoner,” + he said mechanically. + </p> + <p> + “It's all circumstantial evidence, or nearly so,” added Drake, shifting + from one foot to the other. “You were the only one who would have a cause + to get square. And Crimmins says he gave you permission to see her alone. + Even the stable-hands say that. It looks bad, kid. Here, don't take it so + hard. Get a cinch on yourself,” he added, as he watched Garrison's blank + eyes and quivering face. + </p> + <p> + “I'm all right. I'm all right,” muttered Billy vaguely, passing a hand + over his throbbing temples. + </p> + <p> + Drake was silent, fidgeting uneasily. + </p> + <p> + “Kid,” he blurted out at length, “it looks as if you were all in. Say, let + me be your bank-roll, won't you? I know you lost every cent on Sis, no + matter what they say. I'll give you a blank check, and you can fill it out—” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks, Jimmy.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be touchy, kid. You'd do the same for me—” + </p> + <p> + “I mean it, Drake. I don't want a cent. I'm not hard up. Thanks all the + same.” Garrison's rag of honor was fluttering in the wind of his pride. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Drake, finally and uncomfortably, “if you ever want it, + Billy, you know where to come for it. I want to go down on the books as + your friend, hear? Mind that. So-long.” + </p> + <p> + “So-long, Jimmy. And I won't forget your stand.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison continued staring at the floor. This, then, was the reason why + the sporting world had cut him dead; for a horse-poisoner is ranked in the + same category as that assigned to the horse-stealer of the Western + frontier. There, a man's horse is his life; to the turfman it is his + fortune—one and the same. And so Crimmins had testified that he had + permitted him, Garrison, to see Sis alone! + </p> + <p> + Yes, the signals were set dead against him. His opinion of Crimmins had + undergone a complete revolution; first engendered by the trainer offering + him a dishonorable opportunity of fleecing the New York pool-rooms; now + culminated by his indirect charge. + </p> + <p> + Garrison considered the issue paramount. He was furious, though so + seemingly indifferent. Every ounce of resentment in his nature had been + focused to the burning-point. Now he would not leave New York. Come what + might, he would stand his ground. He would not run away. He would fight + the charge; fight Waterbury, Crimmins—the world, if necessary. And + mingled with the warp and woof of this resolve was another; one that he + determined would comprise the color-scheme of his future existence; he + would ferret out the slayer of Sis; not merely for his own vindication, + but for hers. He regarded her slayer as a murderer, for to him Sis had + been more than human. + </p> + <p> + Garrison came to himself by hearing his name mentioned. Behind him two + young men were seated at a table, evidently unaware of his identity, for + they were exchanging their separate views on the running of the Carter + Handicap and the subsequent poisoning of the favorite. + </p> + <p> + “And I say,” concluded the one whose nasal twang bespoke the New + Englander; “I say that it was a dirty race all through.” + </p> + <p> + “One paper hints that the stable was in on it; wanted to hit the bookies + hard,” put in his companion diffidently. + </p> + <p> + “No,” argued the wise one, some alcohol and venom in his syllables, + “Waterbury's all right. He's a square sport. I know. I ought to know, for + I've got inside information. A friend of mine has a cousin who's married + to the brother of a friend of Waterbury's aunt's half-sister. So I ought + to know. Take it from me,” added this Bureau of Inside Information, + beating the table with an insistent fist; “it was a put-up job of + Garrison's. I'll bet he made a mint on it. All these jockeys are crooked. + I may be from Little Falls, but I know. You can't fool me. I've been + following Garrison's record—” + </p> + <p> + “Then what did you bet on him for?” asked his companion mildly. + </p> + <p> + “Because I thought he might ride straight for once. And being up on Sis, I + thought he couldn't help but win. And so I plunged—heavy. And now, + by Heck! ten dollars gone, and I'm mad; mad clear through. Sis was a + corker, and ought to have had the race. I read all about her in the Little + Falls <i>Daily Banner</i>. I'd just like to lay hands on that Garrison—a + miserable little whelp; that's what he is. He ought to have poisoned + himself instead of the horse. I hope Waterbury'll do him up. I'll see him + about it.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison slowly rose, his face white, eyes smoldering. The devil was + running riot through him. His resentment had passed from the apathetic + stage to the fighting. So this was the world's opinion of him! Not only + the world, but miserable wastrels of sports who “plunged heavy” with ten + dollars! His name was to be bandied in their unclean mouths! He, Billy + Garrison, former premier jockey, branded as a thing beyond redemption! He + did not care what might happen, but he would kill that lie here and now. + He was glad of the opportunity; hungry to let loose some of the resentment + seething within him. + </p> + <p> + The Bureau of Inside Information and his companion looked up as Billy + Garrison stood over them, hands in pockets. Both men had been drinking. + Drake and half the café's occupants had drifted out. + </p> + <p> + “Which of you gentlemen just now gave his opinion of Billy Garrison?” + asked the jockey quietly. + </p> + <p> + “I did, neighbor. Been roped in, too?” Inside Information splayed out his + legs, and, with a very blasé air, put his thumbs in the armholes of his + execrable vest. He owned a rangy frame and a loose mouth. He was showing + the sights of Gotham to a friend, and was proud of his knowledge. But he + secretly feared New York because he did not know it. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it was you?” snapped Garrison venomously. “Well, I don't know your + name, but mine's Billy Garrison, and you're a liar!” He struck Inside + Information a whack across the face that sent him a tumbled heap on the + floor. + </p> + <p> + There is no one so dangerous as a coward. There is nothing so dangerous as + ignorance. The New Englander had heard much of Gotham's undercurrent and + the brawls so prevalent there. He had heard and feared. He had looked for + them, fascination in his fear, but till the present had never experienced + one. He had heard that sporting men carried guns and were quick to use + them; that when the lie was passed it meant the hospital or the morgue. He + was thoroughly ignorant of the ways of a great city, of the world; + incapable of meeting a crisis; of apportioning it at its true value. And + so now he overdid it. + </p> + <p> + As Garrison, a contemptuous smile on his face, turned away, and started to + draw a handkerchief from his hip pocket, the New Englander, thinking a + revolver was on its way, scrambled to his feet, wildly seized the heavy + spirit-bottle, and let fly at Garrison's head. There was whisky, muscle, + sinew, and fear behind the shot. + </p> + <p> + As Billy turned about to ascertain whether or not his opponent meant fight + by rising from under the table, the heavy bottle landed full on his + temple. He crumpled up like a withered leaf, and went over on the floor + without even a sigh. + </p> + <p> + It was two weeks later when Garrison regained full consciousness; opened + his eyes to gaze upon blank walls, blank as the ceiling. He was in a + hospital, but he did not know it. He knew nothing. The past had become a + blank. An acute attack of brain-fever had set in, brought on by the + excitement he had undergone and finished by the smash from the + spirit-bottle. + </p> + <p> + There followed many nights when doctors shook their heads and nurses + frowned; nights when it was thought little Billy Garrison would cross the + Great Divide; nights when he sat up in the narrow cot, his hands clenched + as if holding the reins, his eyes flaming as in his feverish imagination + he came down the stretch, fighting for every inch of the way; crying, + pleading, imploring: “Go it, Sis; go it! Take the rail! Careful, careful! + Now—now let her out; let her out! Go, you cripple, go—” All + the jargon of the turf. + </p> + <p> + He was a physical, nervous wreck, and the doctors said that he couldn't + last very long, for consumption had him. It was only a matter of time, + unless a miracle happened. The breath of his life was going through his + mouth and nostrils; the breath of his lungs. + </p> + <p> + No one knew his name at the hospital, not even himself. There was nothing + to identify him by. For Garrison, after the blow that night, had managed + to crawl out to the sidewalk like a wounded beast striving to find its + lair and fighting to die game. + </p> + <p> + There was no one to say him nay, no friend to help him. And hotel + managements are notoriously averse to having murder or assault committed + in their house. So when they saw that Garrison was able to walk they let + him go, and willingly. Then he had collapsed, crumpled in a heap on the + sidewalk. + </p> + <p> + A policeman had eventually found him, and with the uncanny acumen of his + ilk had unerringly diagnosed the case as a “drunk.” From the stationhouse + to Bellevue, Garrison had gone his weary way, and from there, when it was + finally discovered he was neither drunk nor insane, to Roosevelt Hospital. + And no one knew who or what he was, and no one cared overmuch. He was + simply one of the many unfortunate derelicts of a great city. + </p> + <p> + It was over six months before he left the hospital, cured so far as he + could be. The doctors called his complaint by a learned and villainously + unpronounceable name, which, interpreted by the Bowery, meant that Billy + Garrison “had gone dippy.” + </p> + <p> + But Garrison had not. His every faculty was as acute as it ever had been. + Simply, Providence had drawn an impenetrable curtain over his memory, + separating the past from the present; the same curtain that divides our + presents from our futures. He had no past. It was a blank, shot now and + then with a vague gleam of things dead and gone. + </p> + <p> + This oblivion may have been the manifestation of an all-wise Almighty. + Now, at least, he could not brood over past mistakes, though, + unconsciously, he might have to live them out. Life to him was a new book, + not one mark appeared on its clean pages. He did not even know his name—nothing. + </p> + <p> + From the “W. G.” on his linen he understood that those were his initials, + but he could not interpret them; they stood for nothing. He had no + letters, memoranda in his pockets, bearing his name. And so he took the + name of William Good. Perhaps the “William” came to him instinctively; he + had no reason for choosing “Good.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison left the hospital with his cough, a little money the + superintendent had kindly given to him, and his clothes; that was all. + </p> + <p> + Handicapped as he was, harried by futile attempts of memory to fathom his + identity, he was about to renew the battle of life; not as a veteran, one + who has earned promotion, profited by experience, but as a raw recruit. + </p> + <p> + The big city was no longer an old familiar mother, whose every mood and + whimsy he sensed unerringly; now he was a stranger. The streets meant + nothing to him. But when he first turned into old Broadway, a vague, + uneasy feeling stirred within him; it was a memory struggling like an + imprisoned bird to be free. Almost the first person he met was Jimmy + Drake. Garrison was about to pass by, oblivious, when the other seized him + by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Billy! Where did you drop from—” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, you have made a mistake.” Garrison stared coldly, blankly at + Drake, shook free his arm, and passed on. + </p> + <p> + “Gee, what a cut!” mused the book-maker, staring after the rapidly + retreating figure of Garrison. “The frozen mitt for sure. What's happened + now? Where's he been the past six months? Wearing the same clothes, too! + Well, somehow I've queered myself for good. I don't know what I did or + didn't. But I'll keep my eye on him, anyway.” To cheer his philosophy, + Drake passed into the Fifth Avenue for a drink. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <h3> + A READY-MADE HEIR. + </h3> + <p> + Garrison had flattered himself that he had known adversity in his time, + but in the months succeeding his dismissal from the hospital he qualified + for a post-graduate course in privation. He was cursed with the curse of + the age; it was an age of specialties, and he had none. His only one, the + knowledge of the track, had been buried in him, and nothing tended to + awaken it. + </p> + <p> + He had no commercial education; nothing but the <i>savoir-faire</i> which + wealth had given to him, and an inherent breeding inherited from his + mother. By reason of his physique he was disbarred from mere manual labor, + and that haven of the failure—the army. + </p> + <p> + So Garrison joined the ranks of the Unemployed Grand Army of the Republic. + He knew what it was to sleep in Madison Square Park with a newspaper + blanket, and to be awakened by the carol of the touring policemen. He came + to know what it meant to stand in the bread-line, to go the rounds of the + homeless “one-night stands.” + </p> + <p> + He came perilously near reaching the level of the sodden. His morality had + suffered with it all. Where in his former days of hardship he had health, + ambition, a goal to strive for, friends to keep him honest with himself, + now he had nothing. He was alone; no one cared. + </p> + <p> + If he had only taken to the track, his passion—legitimate passion—for + horse-flesh would have pulled him through. But the thought that he ever + could ride never suggested itself to him. + </p> + <p> + He had no opportunity of inhaling the track's atmosphere. Sometimes he + wondered idly why he liked to stop and caress every stray horse. He could + not know that those same hands had once coaxed thoroughbreds down the + stretch to victory. His haunts necessarily kept him from meeting with + those whom he had once known. The few he did happen to meet he cut + unconsciously as he had once cut Jimmy Drake. + </p> + <p> + And so day by day Garrison's morality suffered. It is so easy for the + well-fed to be honest. But when there is the hunger cancer gnawing at + one's vitals, not for one day, but for many, then honesty and dishonesty + cease to be concrete realities. It is not a question of piling up + luxuries, but of supplying mere necessity. + </p> + <p> + And day by day as the hunger cancer gnawed at Garrison's vitals it + encroached on his original stock of honesty. He fought every minute of the + day, but he grimly foresaw that there would come a time when he would + steal the first time opportunity afforded. + </p> + <p> + Day by day he saw the depletion of his honor. He was not a moralist, a + saint, a sinner. Need sweeps all theories aside; in need's fierce crucible + they are transmuted to concrete realities. Those who have never known what + it is to be thrown with Garrison's handicap on the charity of a great city + will not understand. But those who have ever tasted the bitter crust of + adversity will. And it is the old blatant advice from the Seats of the + Mighty: “Get a job.” The old answer from the hopeless undercurrent: “How?” + </p> + <p> + There came a day when the question of honesty or dishonesty was put up to + Garrison in a way he had not foreseen. The line was drawn distinctly; + there was no easy slipping over it by degrees, unnoticed. + </p> + <p> + The toilet facilities of municipal lodging-houses are severely crude and + primitive. For the sake of sanitation, the whilom lodger's clothes are put + in a net and fumigated in a germ-destroying temperature. The men + congregate together in one long room, in various stages of pre-Adamite + costumes, and the shower is turned upon them in numerical rotation. + </p> + <p> + This public washing was one of the many drawbacks to public charity which + Garrison shivered at. As the warm weather set in he accordingly took full + advantage of the free baths at the Battery. On his second day's dip, as he + was leaving, a man whom he had noticed intently scanning the bathers + tapped him on the arm. + </p> + <p> + He was shaped like an olive, with a pair of shrewd gray eyes, and a + clever, clean-shaven mouth. He was well-dressed, and was continually + probing with a quill tooth-pick at his gold-filled front teeth, evidently + desirous of excavating some of the precious metal. + </p> + <p> + “My name's Snark—Theobald D. Snark,” he said shortly, thrusting a + card into Garrison's passive hand. “I am an eminent lawyer, and would be + obliged if you would favor me with a five minutes' interview in my office—American + Tract Building.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't know you,” said Garrison blandly. + </p> + <p> + “You'll like me when you do,” supplemented the eminent lawyer coolly. + “Merely a matter of business, you understand. You look as if a little + business wouldn't hurt you.” + </p> + <p> + “Feel worse,” added Billy mildly, inspecting his crumpled outfit. + </p> + <p> + He was very hungry. He caught eagerly at this quondam opening. Perhaps it + would be the means of starting him in some legitimate business. Then a + wild idea came to him, and slowly floated away again as he remembered that + Mr. Snark had agreed that he did not know him. But while it lasted, the + idea had been a thrilling one for a penniless, homeless wanderer. It had + been: Supposing this lawyer knew him? Knew his real identity, and had + tracked him down for clamoring relatives and a weeping father and mother? + For to Garrison his parents might have been criminals or millionaires so + far as he remembered. + </p> + <p> + The journey to Nassau Street was completed in silence, Mr. Snark centering + all his faculties on his teeth, and Garrison on the probable outcome of + this chance meeting. + </p> + <p> + The eminent lawyer's office was in a corner of the fifth shelf of the + American Tract Building bookcase. It was unoccupied, Mr. Snark being so + intelligent as to be able to dispense with the services of office-boy and + stenographer; it was small but cozy. Offices in that building can be + rented for fifteen dollars per month. + </p> + <p> + After the eminent lawyer had fortified himself from a certain black bottle + labeled “Poison: external use only,” which sat beside the soap-dish in the + little towel-cabinet, he assumed a very preoccupied and highly official + mien at his roller-top desk, where he became vitally interested in a batch + of letters, presumably that morning's mail, but which in reality bore + dates ranging back to the past year. + </p> + <p> + Then the eminent lawyer delved importantly into an empty letter-file; + emerged after ten minutes' study in order to give Blackstone a few + thoroughly familiar turns, opened the window further to cool his fevered + brain, lit a highly athletic cigar, crossed his legs, and was at last at + leisure to talk business with Garrison, who had almost fallen asleep + during the business rush. + </p> + <p> + “What's your name?” he asked peremptorily. + </p> + <p> + Ordinarily Garrison would have begged him to go to a climate where + thermometers are not in demand, but now he was hungry, and wanted a job, + so he answered obediently: “William Good.” + </p> + <p> + “Good, William,” said the eminent lawyer, smiling at himself in the little + mirror of the towel-cabinet. He understood that he possessed a thin vein + of humor. Necessary quality for an eminent lawyer. “And no occupation, I + presume, and no likelihood of one, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Garrison nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Well”—and Mr. Snark made a temple of worship from his fat fingers, + his cigar at right angles, his shrewd gray eyes on the ceiling—“I + have a position which I think you can fill. To make a long story short, I + have a client, a very wealthy gentleman of Cottonton, Virginia; name of + Calvert—Major Henry Clay Calvert. Dare say you've heard of the + Virginia Calverts,” he added, waving the rank incense from the athletic + cigar. + </p> + <p> + He had only heard of the family a week or two ago, but already he + persuaded himself that their reputation was national, and that his + business relations with them dated back to the Settlement days. + </p> + <p> + Garrison found occasion to say he'd never heard of them, and the eminent + lawyer replied patronizingly that “we all can't be well-connected, you + know.” Then he went on with his short story, which, like all short + stories, was a very long one. + </p> + <p> + “Now it appears that Major Calvert has a nephew somewhere whom he has + never seen, and whom he wishes to recognize; in short, make him his heir. + He has advertised widely for him during the past few months, and has + employed a lawyer in almost every city to assist in this hunt for a needle + in a haystack. This nephew's name is Dagget—William C. Dagget. His + mother was a half-sister of Major Calvert's. The search for this nephew + has been going on for almost a year—since Major Calvert heard of his + brother-in-law's death—but the nephew has not been found.” + </p> + <p> + The eminent lawyer cleared his throat eloquently and relighted the + athletic cigar, which had found occasion to go out. + </p> + <p> + “It will be a very fine thing for this nephew,” he added speculatively. + “Very fine, indeed. Major Calvert has no children, and, as I say, the + nephew will be his heir—if found. Also the lawyer who discovers the + absent youth will receive ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars is + not a sum to be sneezed at, Mr. Good. Not to be sneezed at, sir. Not to be + sneezed at,” thundered the eminent lawyer forensically. + </p> + <p> + Garrison agreed. He would never think of sneezing at it, even if he was + subject to that form of recreation. But what had that to do with him? + </p> + <p> + The eminent lawyer attentively scrutinized the blue streamer from his + cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I've found him at last. You are he, Mr. Good. Mr. Good, my + heartiest congratulations, sir.” And Mr. Snark insisted upon shaking the + bewildered Garrison impressively by the hand. + </p> + <p> + Garrison's head swam. Then his wild dream had come true! His identity had + been at last discovered! He was not the offspring of some criminal, but + the scion of a noble Virginia house! But Mr. Snark was talking again. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” he began slowly, focusing an attentive eye on Garrison's face, + noting its every light and shade, “this nice old gentleman and his wife + are hard up for a nephew. You and I are hard up for money. Why not effect + a combination? Eh, why not? It would be sinful to waste such an + opportunity of doing good. In you I give them a nice, respectable nephew, + who is tired of reaping his wild oats. You are probably much better than + the original. We are all satisfied. I do everybody a good turn by the + exercise of a little judgment.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison's dream crumbled to ashes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” he said blankly, “you—you mean to palm me off as the nephew?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly, my son, the long-lost nephew. You are fitted for the role. They + haven't ever seen the original, and then, by chance, you have a birthmark, + shaped like a spur, beneath your right collar-bone. Oh, yes, I marked it + while you were bathing. I've hunted the baths in the chance of finding a + duplicate, for I could not afford to run the risks of advertising. + </p> + <p> + “It seems this nephew has a similar mark, his mother having mentioned it + once in a letter to her brother, and it is the only means of + identification. Luck is with us, Mr. Good, and of course you will take + full advantage of it. As a side bonus you can pay me twenty-five thousand + or so when you come into the estate on your uncle's death.” + </p> + <p> + The eminent lawyer, his calculating eye still on Garrison, then proceeded + with much forensic ability and virile imagination to lay the full beauties + of the “cinch” before him. + </p> + <p> + “But supposing the real nephew shows up?” asked Garrison hesitatingly, + after half an hour's discussion. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible. I am fully convinced he's dead. Possession is nine points of + the law, my son. If he should happen to turn up, which he won't, why, you + have only to brand him as a fraud. I'm a kind-hearted man, and I merely + wish Major Calvert to have the pleasure of killing fatted calf for one + instead of a burial. I'm sure the real nephew is dead. Anyway, the search + will be given up when you are found.” + </p> + <p> + “But about identification?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the mark's enough, quite enough. You've never met your kin, but you + can have very sweet, childish recollections of having heard your mother + speak of them. I know enough of old Calvert to post you on the family. + You've lived North all your life. We'll fix up a nice respectable series + of events regarding how you came to be away in China somewhere, and thus + missed seeing the advertisement. + </p> + <p> + “We'll let my discovery of you stand as it is, only we'll substitute the + swimming-pool of the New York Athletic Club in lieu of the Battery. The + Battery wouldn't sound good form. Romanticism always makes truth more + palatable. Trust me to work things to a highly artistic and flawless + finish. I can procure any number of witnesses—at so much per head—who + have time and again distinctly heard your childish prattle regarding dear + Uncle and Aunty Calvert. + </p> + <p> + “I'll wire on that long-lost nephew has been found, and you can proceed to + lie right down in your ready-made bed of roses. There won't be any thorns. + Bit of a step up from municipal lodging-houses, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Garrison clenched his hands. His honor was in the last ditch. The great + question had come; not in the guise of a loaf of bread, but this. How long + his honor put up a fight he did not know, but the eminent lawyer was + apparently satisfied regarding the outcome, for he proceeded very + leisurely to read the morning paper, leaving Garrison to his thoughts. + </p> + <p> + And what thoughts they were! What excuses he made to himself—poor + hostages to a fast-crumbling honor! Only the exercise of a little + subterfuge and all this horrible present would be a past. No more sleeping + in the parks, no more of the hunger cancer. He would have a name, friends, + kin, a future. Something to live for. Some one to care for; some one to + care for him. And he would be all that a nephew should be; all that, and + more. He would make all returns in his power. + </p> + <p> + He had even reached the point when he saw in the future himself confessing + the deception; saw himself forgiven and being loved for himself alone. And + he would confess it all—his share, but not Snark's. All he wanted + was a start in life. A name to keep clean; traditions to uphold, for he + had none of his own. All this he would gain for a little subterfuge. And + perhaps, as Snark had acutely pointed out, he might be a better nephew + than the original. He would be. + </p> + <p> + When a man begins to compromise with dishonesty, there is only one + outcome. Garrison's rag of honor was hauled down. He agreed to the + deception. He would play the role of William C. Dagget, the lost nephew. + </p> + <p> + When he made his intention known, the eminent lawyer nodded as if to say + that Garrison wasted an unnecessary amount of time over a very childish + problem, and then he proceeded to go into the finer points of the game, + building up a life history, supplying dates, etc. Then he sent a wire to + Major Calvert. Afterward he took Garrison to his first respectable lunch + in months and bought him an outfit of clothes. On their return to the + corner nook, fifth shelf of the bookcase, a reply was awaiting them from + Major Calvert. The long-lost nephew, in company with Mr. Snark, was to + start the next day for Cottonton, Virginia. The telegram was warm, and + commended the eminent lawyer's ability. + </p> + <p> + “Son,” said the eminent lawyer dreamily, carefully placing the momentous + wire in his pocket, “a good deed never goes unrewarded. Always remember + that. There is nothing like the old biblical behest: 'Let us pray.' You + for your bed of roses; me for—for——” mechanically he + went to the small towel-cabinet and gravely pointed the unfinished + observation with the black bottle labeled “Poison.” + </p> + <p> + “To the long-lost nephew, Mr. William C. Dagget. To the bed of roses. And + to the eminent lawyer, Theobald D. Snark, Esq., who has mended a poor + fortune with a better brain. Gentlemen,” he concluded grandiloquently, + slowly surveying the little room as if it were an overcrowded Colosseum—“gentlemen, + with your permission, together with that of the immortal Mr. Swiveller, we + will proceed to drown it in the rosy. Drown it in the rosy, gentlemen.” + And so saying, Mr. Snark gravely tilted the black bottle ceilingward. + </p> + <p> + The following evening, as the shadows were lengthening, Garrison and the + eminent lawyer pulled into the neat little station of Cottonton. The + good-by to Gotham had been said. It had not been difficult for Garrison to + say good-by. He was bidding farewell to a life and a city that had been + detestable in the short year he had known it. The lifetime spent in it had + been forgotten. But with it all he had said good-by to honor. On the long + train trip he had been smothering his conscience, feebly awakened by the + approaching meeting, the touch of new clothes, and the prospect of a + consistently full stomach. He even forgot to cough once or twice. + </p> + <p> + But the conscience was only feebly awakened. The eminent lawyer had judged + his client right. For as one is never miserly until one has acquired + wealth, so Garrison was loath to vacate the bed of roses now that he had + felt how exceedingly pleasant it was. To go back to rags and the hunger + cancer and homelessness would be hard; very hard even if honor stood at + the other end. + </p> + <p> + “There they are—the major and his wife,” whispered Snark, gripping + his arm and nodding out of the window to where a tall, clean-shaven, + white-haired man and a lady who looked the thoroughbred stood anxiously + scanning the windows of the cars. Drawn up at the curb behind them was a + smart two-seated phaeton, with a pair of clean-limbed bays. The driver was + not a negro, as is usually the case in the South, but a tight-faced little + man, who looked the typical London cockney that he was. + </p> + <p> + Garrison never remembered how he got through his introduction to his + “uncle” and “aunt.” His home-coming was a dream. The sense of shame was + choking him as Major Calvert seized both hands in a stone-crushed grip and + looked down upon him, steadily, kindly, for a long time. + </p> + <p> + And then Mrs. Calvert, a dear, middle-aged lady, had her arms about + Garrison's neck and was saying over and over again in the impulsive + Southern fashion: “I'm so glad to see you, dear. You've your mother's own + eyes. You know she and I were chums.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison had choked, and if the eminent lawyer's wonderful vocabulary and + eloquent manner had not just then intervened, Garrison then and there + would have wilted and confessed everything. If only, he told himself + fiercely, Major Calvert and his wife had not been so courteous, so + trustful, so simple, so transparently honorable, incapable of crediting a + dishonorable action to another, then perhaps it would not have been so + difficult. + </p> + <p> + The ride behind the spanking bays was all a dream; all a dream as they + drove up the long, white, wide Logan Pike under the nodding trees and the + soft evening sun. Everything was peaceful—the blue sky, the waving + corn-fields, the magnolia, the songs of the homing birds. The air tasted + rich as with great breaths he drew it into his lungs. It gave him hope. + With this air to aid him he might successfully grapple with consumption. + </p> + <p> + Garrison was in the rear seat of the phaeton with Mrs. Calvert, + mechanically answering questions, giving chapters of his fictitious life, + while she regarded him steadily with her grave blue eyes. Mr. Snark and + the major were in the middle seat, and the eminent lawyer was talking a + veritable blue streak, occasionally flinging over his shoulder a + bolstering remark in answer to one of Mrs. Calvert's questions, as his + quick ear detected a preoccupation in Garrison's tones, and he sensed that + there might be a sudden collapse to their rising fortunes. He was in a + very good humor, for, besides the ten thousand, and the bonus he would + receive from Garrison on the major's death, he had accepted an invitation + to stay the week end at Calvert House. + </p> + <p> + Garrison's inattention was suddenly swept away by the clatter of hoofs + audible above the noise contributed by the bays. A horse, which Garrison + instinctively, and to his own surprise, judged to be a two-year-old filly, + was approaching at a hard gallop down the broad pike. Her rider was a + young girl, hatless, who now let loose a boyish shout and waved a + gauntleted hand. Mrs. Calvert, smilingly, returned the hail. + </p> + <p> + “A neighbor and a lifelong friend of ours,” she said, turning to Garrison. + “I want you to be very good friends, you and Sue. She is a very lovely + girl, and I know you will like her. I want you to. She has been expecting + your coming. I am sure she is anxious to see what you look like.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison made some absent-minded, commonplace answer. His eyes were + kindling strangely as he watched the oncoming filly. His blood was surging + through him. Unconsciously, his hands became ravenous for the reins. A + vague memory was stirring within him. And then the girl had swung her + mount beside the carriage, and Major Calvert, with all the ceremonious + courtesy of the South, had introduced her. + </p> + <p> + She was a slim girl, with a wealth of indefinite hair, now gold, now + bronze, and she regarded Garrison with a pair of very steady gray eyes. + Beautiful eyes they were; and, as she pulled off her gauntlet and bent + down a slim hand from the saddle, he looked up into them. It seemed as if + he looked into them for ages. Where had he seen them before? In a dream? + And her name was Desha. Where had he heard that name? Memory was + struggling furiously to tear away the curtain that hid the past. + </p> + <p> + “I'm right glad to see you,” said the girl, finally, a slow blush coming + to the tan of her cheek. She slowly drew away her hand, as, apparently, + Garrison had appropriated it forever. + </p> + <p> + “The honor is mine,” returned Garrison mechanically, as he replaced his + hat. Where had he heard that throaty voice? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <h3> + ALSO A READY-MADE HUSBAND. + </h3> + <p> + A week had passed—a week of new life for Garrison, such as he had + never dreamed of living. Even in the heyday of his fame, forgotten by him, + unlimited wealth had never brought the peace and content of Calvert House. + It seemed as if his niche had long been vacant in the household, awaiting + his occupancy, and at times he had difficulty in realizing that he had won + it through deception, not by right of blood. + </p> + <p> + The prognostications of the eminent lawyer, Mr. Snark, to the effect that + everything would be surprisingly easy, were fully realized. To the major + and his wife the birthmark of the spur was convincing proof; and, if more + were needed, the thorough coaching of Snark was sufficient. + </p> + <p> + More than that, a week had not passed before it was made patently apparent + to Garrison, much to his surprise and no little dismay, that he was liked + for himself alone. The major was a father to him, Mrs. Calvert a mother in + every sense of the word. He had seen Sue Desha twice since his + “home-coming,” for the Calvert and Desha estates joined. + </p> + <p> + Old Colonel Desha had eyed Garrison somewhat queerly on being first + introduced, but he had a poor memory for faces, and was unable to connect + the newly discovered nephew of his neighbor and friend with little Billy + Garrison, the one-time premiere jockey, whom he had frequently seen ride. + </p> + <p> + The week's stay at Calvert House had already begun to show its beneficial + effect upon Garrison. The regular living, clean air, together with the + services of the family doctor, were fighting the consumption germs with no + little success. For it had not taken the keen eye of the major nor the + loving one of the wife very long to discover that the tuberculosis germ + was clutching at Garrison's lungs. + </p> + <p> + “You've gone the pace, young man,” said the venerable family doctor, + tapping his patient with the stethoscope. “Gone the pace, and now nature + is clamoring for her long-deferred payment.” + </p> + <p> + The major was present, and Garrison felt the hot blood surge to his face, + as the former's eyes were riveted upon him. + </p> + <p> + “Youth is a prodigal spendthrift,” put in the major sadly. “But isn't it + hereditary, doctor? Perhaps the seed was cultivated, not sown, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Assiduously cultivated,” replied Doctor Blandly dryly. “You'll have to + get back to first principles, my boy. You've made an oven out of your + lungs by cigarette smoke. You inhale? Of course. Quite the correct thing. + Have you ever blown tobacco smoke through a handkerchief? Yes? Well, it + leaves a dark-brown stain, doesn't it? That's what your lungs are like—coated + with nicotine. Your wind is gone. That is why cigarettes are so injurious. + Not because, as some people tell you, they are made of inferior tobacco, + but because you inhale them. That's where the danger is. Smoke a pipe or + cigar, if smoke you must; those you don't inhale. Keep your lungs for what + God intended them for—fresh air. Then, your vitality is nearly + bankrupt. You've made an old curiosity-shop out of your stomach. You + require regular sleep—tons of it——” + </p> + <p> + “But I'm never sleepy,” argued Garrison, feeling very much like a + schoolboy catechised by his master. “When I wake in the morning, I awake + instantly, every faculty alert—” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally,” grunted the old doctor. “Don't you know that is proof + positive that you have lived on stimulants? It is artificial. You should + be drowsy. I'll wager the first thing you do mornings is to roll a smoke; + eh? Exactly. Smoke on an empty stomach! That's got to be stopped. It's the + simple life for you. Plenty of exercise in the open air; live, bathe, in + sunshine. It is the essence of life. I think, major, we can cure this + young prodigal of yours. But he must obey me—implicitly.” + </p> + <p> + Subsequently, Major Calvert had, for him, a serious conversation with + Garrison. + </p> + <p> + “I believe in youth having its fling,” he said kindly, in conclusion; “but + I don't believe in flinging so far that you cannot retrench safely. From + Doctor Blandly's statements, you seem to have come mighty near exceeding + the speed limit, my boy.” + </p> + <p> + He bent his white brows and regarded Garrison steadily out of his keen + eyes, in which lurked a fund of potential understanding. + </p> + <p> + “But sorrow,” he continued, “acts on different natures in different ways. + Your mother's death must have been a great blow to you. It was to me.” He + looked fixedly at his nails. “I understand fully what it must mean to be + thrown adrift on the world at the age you were. I don't wish you ever to + think that we knew of your condition at the time. We didn't—not for + a moment. I did not learn of your mother's death until long afterward, and + only of your father's by sheer accident. But we have already discussed + these subjects, and I am only touching on them now because I want you, as + you know, to be as good a man as your mother was a woman; not a man like + your father was. You want to forget that past life of yours, my boy, for + you are to be my heir; to be worthy of the name of Calvert, as I feel + confident you will. You have your mother's blood. When your health is + improved, we will discuss more serious questions, regarding your future, + your career; also—your marriage.” He came over and laid a kindly + hand on Garrison's shoulder. + </p> + <p> + And Garrison had been silent. He was in a mental and moral fog. He guessed + that his supposed father had not been all that a man should be. The + eminent lawyer, Mr. Snark, had said as much. He knew himself that he was + nothing that a man should be. His conscience was fully awakened by now. + Every worthy ounce of blood he possessed cried out for him to go; to leave + Calvert House before it was too late; before the old major and his wife + grew to love him as there seemed danger of them doing. + </p> + <p> + He was commencing to see his deception in its true light; the crime he was + daily, hourly, committing against his host and hostess; against all + decency. He had no longer a prop to support him with specious argument, + for the eminent lawyer had returned to New York, carrying with him his + initial proceeds of the rank fraud—Major Calvert's check for ten + thousand dollars. + </p> + <p> + Garrison was face to face with himself; he was beginning to see his + dishonesty in all its hideous nakedness. And yet he stayed at Calvert + House; stayed on the crater of a volcano, fearing every stranger who + passed, fearing to meet every neighbor; fearing that his deception must + become known, though reason told him such fear was absurd. He stayed at + Calvert House, braving the abhorrence of his better self; stayed not + through any appreciation of the Calvert flesh-pots, nor because of any + monetary benefits, present or future. He lived in the present, for the + hour, oblivious to everything. + </p> + <p> + For Garrison had fallen in love with his next-door neighbor, Sue Desha. + Though he did not know his past life, it was the first time he had + understood to the full the meaning of the ubiquitous, potential verb “to + love.” And, instead of bringing peace and content—the whole gamut of + the virtues—hell awoke in little Billy Garrison's soul. + </p> + <p> + The second time he had seen her was the day following his arrival, and + when he had started on Doctor Blandly's open-air treatment. + </p> + <p> + “I'll have a partner over to put you through your paces in tennis,” Mrs. + Calvert had said, a quiet twinkle in her eye. And shortly afterward, as + Garrison was aimlessly batting the balls about, feeling very much like an + overgrown schoolboy, Sue Desha, tennis-racket in hand, had come up the + drive. + </p> + <p> + She was bareheaded, dressed in a blue sailor costume, her sleeves rolled + high on her firm, tanned arms. She looked very businesslike, and was, as + Garrison very soon discovered. + </p> + <p> + Three sets were played in profound silence, or, rather, the girl made a + spectacle out of Garrison. Her services were diabolically unanswerable; + her net and back court game would have merited the earnest attention of an + expert, and Garrison hardly knew where a racket began or ended. + </p> + <p> + At the finish he was covered with perspiration and confusion, while his + opponent, apparently, had not begun to warm up. By mutual consent, they + occupied a seat underneath a spreading magnolia-tree, and then the girl + insisted upon Garrison resuming his coat. They were like two children. + </p> + <p> + “You'll get cold; you're not strong,” said the girl finally, with the + manner of a very old and experienced mother. She was four years younger + than Garrison. “Put it on; you're not strong. That's right. Always obey.” + </p> + <p> + “I am strong,” persisted Garrison, flushing. He felt very like a + schoolboy. + </p> + <p> + The girl eyed him critically, calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but you're not; not a little bit. Do you know you're very—very—rickety? + Very rickety, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison eyed his flannels in visible perturbation. They flapped about his + thin, wiry shanks most disagreeably. He was painfully conscious of his + elbows, of his thin chest. Painfully conscious that the girl was physical + perfection, he was a parody of manhood. He looked up, with a smile, and + met the girl's frank eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I think rickety is just the word,” he agreed, spanning a wrist with a + finger and thumb. + </p> + <p> + “You cannot play tennis, can you?” asked the girl dryly. “Not a little, + tiny bit.” + </p> + <p> + “No; not a little bit.” + </p> + <p> + “Golf?” Head on one side. + </p> + <p> + “Not guilty.” + </p> + <p> + “Swim?” + </p> + <p> + “Gloriously. Like a stone.” + </p> + <p> + “Run?” Head on the other side. + </p> + <p> + “If there's any one after me.” + </p> + <p> + “Ride? Every one rides down this-away, you know.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden vague passion mouthed at Garrison's heart. “Ride?” he echoed, + eyes far away. “I—I think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Only think so! Humph!” She swung a restless foot. “Can't you do + anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” critically. “I think I can eat, and sleep——” + </p> + <p> + “And talk nonsense. Let me see your hand.” She took it imperiously, palm + up, in her lap, and examined it critically, as if it were the paw of some + animal. “My! it's as small as a woman's!” she exclaimed, in dismay. “Why, + you could wear my glove, I believe.” There was one part disdain to three + parts amusement, ridicule, in her throaty voice. + </p> + <p> + “It is small,” admitted Garrison, eyeing it ruefully. “I wish I had + thought of asking mother to give me a bigger one. Is it a crime?” + </p> + <p> + “No; a calamity.” Her foot was going restlessly. “I like your eyes,” she + said calmly, at length. + </p> + <p> + Garrison bowed. He was feeling decidedly uncomfortable. He had never met a + girl like this. Nothing seemed sacred to her. She was as frank as the + wind, or sun. + </p> + <p> + “You know,” she continued, her great eyes half-closed, “I was awfully + anxious to see you when I heard you were coming home——” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + She turned and faced him, her grey eyes opened wide. “Why? Isn't one + always interested in one's future husband?” + </p> + <p> + It was Garrison who was confused. Something caught at his throat. He + stammered, but words would not come. He laughed nervously. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't you know we were engaged?” asked the girl, with childlike + simplicity and astonishment. “Oh, yes. How superb!” + </p> + <p> + “Engaged? Why—why——” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Before we were born. Your uncle and aunt and my parents had it + all framed up. I thought you knew. A cut-and-dried affair. Are you not + just wild with delight?” + </p> + <p> + “But—but,” expostulated Garrison, his face white, “supposing the + real me—I mean, supposing I had not come home? Supposing I had been + dead?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, then,” she replied calmly, “then, I suppose, I would have a chance + of marrying some one I really loved. But what is the use of supposing? + Here you are, turned up at the last minute, like a bad penny, and here I + am, very much alive. Ergo, our relatives' wishes respectfully fulfilled, + and—connubial misery <i>ad libitum</i>. <i>Mes condolences</i>. If + you feel half as bad as I do, I really feel sorry for you. But, frankly, I + think the joke is decidedly on me.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison was silent, staring with hard eyes at the ground. He could not + begin to analyze his thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “You are not complimentary, at all events,” he said quietly at length. + </p> + <p> + “So every one tells me,” she sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I did not know of this arrangement,” he added, looking up, a queer smile + twisting his lips. + </p> + <p> + “And now you are lonesomely miserable, like I am,” she rejoined, crossing + a restless leg. “No doubt you left your ideal in New York. Perhaps you are + married already. Are you?” she cried eagerly, seizing his arm. + </p> + <p> + “No such good luck—for you,” he added, under his breath. + </p> + <p> + “I thought so,” she sighed resignedly. “Of course no one would have you. + It's hopeless.” + </p> + <p> + “It's not,” he argued sharply, his pride, anger in revolt. He, who had no + right to any claim. “We're not compelled to marry each other. It's a free + country. It is ridiculous, preposterous.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't get so fussy!” she interrupted petulantly. “Don't you think + I've tried to kick over the traces? And I've had more time to think of it + than you—all my life. It is a family institution. Your uncle pledged + his nephew, if he should have one, and my parents pledged me. We are + hostages to their friendship. They wished to show how much they cared for + one another by making us supremely miserable for life. Of course, I spent + my life in arranging how you should look, if you ever came home—which + I devoutly hoped you wouldn't. It wouldn't be so difficult, you see, if + you happened to match my ideals. Then it would be a real love-feast, with + parents' blessings and property thrown in to boot.” + </p> + <p> + “And then I turned up—a little, under-sized, nothingless pea, + instead of the regular patented, double-action, stalwart Adonis of your + imagination,” added Garrison dryly. + </p> + <p> + “How well you describe yourself!” said the girl admiringly. + </p> + <p> + “It must be horrible!” he condoled half-cynically. + </p> + <p> + “And of course you, too, were horribly disappointed?” she added, after a + moment's pause, tapping her oxford with tennis-racket. + </p> + <p> + Garrison turned and deliberately looked into her gray eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I am—horribly,” he lied calmly. “My ideal is the dark, quiet + girl of the clinging type.” + </p> + <p> + “She wouldn't have much to cling to,” sniffed the girl. “We'll be + miserable together, then. Do you know, I almost hate you! I think I do. + I'm quite sure I do.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison eyed her in silence, the smile on his lips. She returned the + look, her face flushed. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Desha—” + </p> + <p> + “You'll have to call me Sue. You're Billy; I'm Sue. That's one of the + minor penalties. Our prenatal engagement affords us this charming + familiarity,” she interrupted scathingly. + </p> + <p> + “Sue, then. Sue,” continued Garrison quietly, “from your type, I thought + you fashioned of better material. Now, don't explode—yet a while. I + mean property and parents' blessing should not weigh a curse with you. + Yes; I said curse—damn, if you wish. If you loved, this burlesque + engagement should not stand in your way. You would elope with the man you + love, and let property and parents' blessings——” + </p> + <p> + “That would be a good way for you to get out of the muddle unscathed, + wouldn't it?” she flashed in. “How chivalrous! Why don't you elope with + some one—the dark, clinging girl—and let me free? You want me + to suffer, not yourself. Just like you Yankees—cold-blooded + icicles!” + </p> + <p> + Garrison considered. “I never thought of that, honestly!” he said, with a + laugh. “I would elope quick enough, if I had only myself to consider.” + </p> + <p> + “Then your dark, clinging girl is lacking in the very virtues you find so + woefully missing in me. She won't take a risk. I cannot say I blame her,” + she added, scanning the brooding Garrison. + </p> + <p> + He laughed good-humoredly. “How you must detest me! But cheer up, my + sister in misery! You will marry the man you love, all right. Never fear.” + </p> + <p> + “Will I?” she asked enigmatically. Her eyes were half-shut, watching + Garrison's profile. “Will I, soothsayer?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded comprehensively, bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “You will. One of the equations of the problem will be eliminated, and + thus will be found the answer.” + </p> + <p> + “Which?” she asked softly, heel tapping gravel. + </p> + <p> + “The unnecessary one, of course. Isn't it always the unnecessary one?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean,” she said slowly, “that you will go away?” + </p> + <p> + Garrison nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she added, after a pause, “the dark, clinging girl is + waiting?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” he bantered. + </p> + <p> + “It must be nice to be loved like that.” Her eyes were wide and far away. + “To have one renounce relatives, position, wealth—all, for love. It + must be very nice, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + Still, Garrison was silent. He had cause to be. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it is right, fair,” continued the girl slowly, her brow + wrinkled speculatively, “to break your uncle's and aunt's hearts for the + sake of a girl? You know how they have longed for your home-coming. How + much you mean to them! You are all they have. Don't you think you are + selfish—very selfish?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe the Bible says to leave all and cleave unto your wife,” + returned Garrison. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But not your intended wife.” + </p> + <p> + “But, you see, she is of the cleaving type.” + </p> + <p> + “And why this hurry? Aren't you depriving your uncle and aunt + unnecessarily early?” + </p> + <p> + “But it is the only answer, as you pointed out. You then would be free.” + </p> + <p> + He did not know why he was indulging in this repartee. Perhaps because the + situation was so novel, so untenable. But a strange, new force was working + in him that day, imparting a peculiar twist to his humor. He was hating + himself. He was hopeless, cynical, bitter. + </p> + <p> + If he could have laid hands upon that eminent lawyer, Mr. Snark, he would + have wrung his accomplished neck to the best of his ability. He, Snark, + must have known about this prenatal engagement. And his bitterness, his + hopelessness, were all the more real, for already he knew that he cared, + and cared a great deal, for this curious girl with the steady gray eyes + and wealth of indefinite hair; cared more than he would confess even to + himself. It seemed as if he always had cared; as if he had always been + looking into the depths of those great gray eyes. They were part of a + dream, the focusing-point of the misty past—forever out of focus. + </p> + <p> + The girl had been considering his answer, and now she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” she said gravely, “you are not sincere when you say your + primal reason for leaving would be in order to set me free. Of course you + are not sincere.” + </p> + <p> + “Is insincerity necessarily added to my numerous physical infirmities?” he + bantered. + </p> + <p> + “Not necessarily. But there is always the love to make a virtue of + necessity—especially when there's some one waiting on necessity.” + </p> + <p> + “But did I say that would be my primal reason for leaving—setting + you free? I thought I merely stated it as one of the following blessings + attendant on virtue.” + </p> + <p> + “Equivocation means that you were not sincere. Why don't you go, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” Garrison looked up sharply at the tone of her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you go? Hurry up! Reward the clinging girl and set me free.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there such a hurry? Won't you let me ferret out a pair of pajamas, to + say nothing of good-bys?” + </p> + <p> + “How silly you are!” she said coldly, rising. “The question, then, rests + entirely with you. Whenever you make up your mind to go—” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't we let it hang fire indefinitely? Perhaps you could learn to + love me. Then there would be no need to go.” Garrison smiled deliberately + up into her eyes, the devil working in him. + </p> + <p> + Miss Desha returned his look steadily. “And the other girl—the + clinging one?” she asked calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she could wait. If we didn't hit it off, I could fall back on her. I + would hate to be an old bachelor.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I don't think it would be quite a success,” said the girl critically. + “You see, I think you are the most detestable person I ever met. I really + pity the other girl. It's better to be an old bachelor than to be a young—cad.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison rose slowly. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <h3> + “YOU'RE BILLY GARRISON.” + </h3> + <p> + “And what is a cad?” he asked abstractedly. + </p> + <p> + “One who shames his birth and position by his breeding.” + </p> + <p> + “And no question of dishonesty enters into it?” He could not say why he + asked. “It is not, then, a matter of moral ethics, but of mere—well——” + </p> + <p> + “Sensitiveness,” she finished dryly. “I really think I prefer rank + dishonesty, if it is offset by courtesy and good breeding. You see, I am + not at all moral.” + </p> + <p> + Here Mrs. Calvert made her appearance, with a book and sunshade. She was a + woman whom a sunshade completed. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you two have not been quarreling,” she observed. “It is too nice a + day for that. I was watching the slaughter of the innocents on the + tennis-court. Really, you play a wretched game, William.” + </p> + <p> + “So I have been informed,” replied Garrison. “It is quite a relief to have + so many people agree with me for once.” + </p> + <p> + “In this instance you can believe them,” commented the girl. She turned to + Mrs. Calvert. “Whose ravings are you going to listen to now?” she asked, + taking the book Mrs. Calvert carried. + </p> + <p> + “A matter of duty,” laughed the older woman. “No; it's not a novel. It + came this morning. The major wishes me to assimilate it and impart to him + its nutritive elements—if it contains any. He is so miserably busy—doing + nothing, as usual. But it is a labor of love. If we women are denied + children, we must interest ourselves in other things.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” exclaimed the girl, with interest; “it's the years record of the + track!” She was thumbing over the leaves. “I'd love to read it! May I when + you've done? Thank you. Why, here's Sysonby, Gold Heels, The Picket—dear + old Picket! Kentucky's pride! And here's Sis. Remember Sis? The Carter + Handicap—” + </p> + <p> + She broke off suddenly and turned to the silent Garrison. “Did you go much + to the track up North?” She was looking straight at him. + </p> + <p> + “I—I—that is—why, yes, of course,” he murmured vaguely. + “May I see it?” + </p> + <p> + He took the book from her unwilling hand. A full-page photograph of Sis + was confronting him. He studied it long and carefully, passing a troubled + hand nervously over his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “I—I think I've seen her,” he said, at length, looking up vacantly. + “Somehow, she seems familiar.” + </p> + <p> + Again he fell to studying the graceful lines of the thoroughbred, + oblivious of his audience. + </p> + <p> + “She is a Southern horse,” commented Mrs. Calvert. “Rather she was. Of + course you-all heard of her poisoning? It never said whether she + recovered. Do you know?” + </p> + <p> + Garrison glanced up quickly, and met Sue Desha's unwavering stare. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I believe I did hear that she was poisoned, or something to that + effect, now that you mention it.” His eyes were still vacant. + </p> + <p> + “You look as if you had seen a ghost,” laughed Sue, her eyes on the + magnolia-tree. + </p> + <p> + He laughed somewhat nervously. “I—I've been thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the major going in for the Carter this year?” asked the girl, turning + to Mrs. Calvert. “Who will he run—Dixie?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so. She is the logical choice.” Mrs. Calvert was nervously + prodding the gravel with her sunshade. “Sometimes I wish he would give up + all ideas of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I think father is responsible for that. Since Rogue won the last Carter, + father is horse-mad, and has infected all his neighbors.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it will be friend against friend,” laughed Mrs. Calvert. “For, of + course, the colonel will run Rogue again this year—” + </p> + <p> + “I—I don't think so.” The girl's face was sober. “That is,” she + added hastily, “I don't know. Father is still in New York. I think his + initial success has spoiled him. Really, he is nothing more than a big + child.” She laughed affectedly. Mrs. Calvert's quiet, keen eyes were on + her. + </p> + <p> + “Racing can be carried to excess, like everything,” said the older woman, + at length. “I suppose the colonel will bring home with him this Mr. + Waterbury you were speaking of?” + </p> + <p> + The girl nodded. There was silence, each member of the trio evidently + engrossed with thoughts that were of moment. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Calvert was idly thumbing over the race-track annual. “Here is a page + torn out,” she observed absently. “I wonder what it was? A thing like that + always piques my curiosity. I suppose the major wanted it for reference. + But then he hasn't seen the book yet. I wonder who wanted it? Let me—yes, + it's ended here. Oh, it must have been the photograph and record of that + jockey, Billy Garrison! Remember him? What a brilliant career he had! One + never hears of him nowadays. I wonder what became of him?” + </p> + <p> + “Billy Garrison?” echoed Garrison slowly, “Why—I—I think I've + heard of him—” + </p> + <p> + He was cut short by a laugh from the girl. “Oh, you're good! Why, his name + used to be a household word. You should have heard it. But, then, I don't + suppose you ever went to the track. Those who do don't forget.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Calvert walked slowly away. “Of course you'll stay for lunch, Sue,” + she called back. “And a canter might get up an appetite. William, I meant + to tell you before this that the major has reserved a horse for your use. + He is mild and thoroughly broken. Crimmins will show him to you in the + stable. You must learn to ride. You'll find riding-clothes in your room, I + think. I recommend an excellent teacher in Sue. Good-by, and don't get + thrown.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you willing?” asked the girl curiously. + </p> + <p> + Garrison's heart was pounding strangely. His mouth was dry. “Yes, yes,” he + said eagerly. + </p> + <p> + The tight-faced cockney, Crimmins, was in the stable when Garrison, in + riding-breeches, puttee leggings, etc., entered. Four names were whirling + over and over in his brain ever since they had been first mentioned. Four + names—Sis, Waterbury, Garrison, and Crimmins. He did not know whey + they should keep recurring with such maddening persistency. And yet how + familiar they all seemed! + </p> + <p> + Crimmins eyed him askance as he entered. + </p> + <p> + “Goin' for a canter, sir? Ho, yuss; this 'ere is the 'orse the master said + as 'ow you were to ride, sir. It don't matter which side yeh get on. 'E's + as stiddy-goin' as a alarum clock. Ho, yuss. I calls 'im Waterbury Watch—partly + because I 'appen to 'ave a brother wot's trainer for Mr. Waterbury, the + turfman, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Crimmins shifted his cud with great satisfaction at this uninterrupted + flow of loquacity and brilliant humor. Garrison was looking the animal + over instinctively, his hands running from hock to withers and back again. + </p> + <p> + “How old is he?” he asked absently. + </p> + <p> + “Three years, sir. Ho, yuss. Thoroughbred. Cast-off from the Duryea + stable. By Sysonby out of Hamburg Belle. Won the Brighton Beach overnight + sweepstakes in nineteen an' four. Ho, yuss. Just a little off his oats, + but a bloomin' good 'orse.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison turned, speaking mechanically. “I wonder do you think I'm a fool! + Sysonby himself won the Brighton sweepstakes in nineteen-four. It was the + beginning of his racing career, and an easy win. This animal here is a + plug; an out-and-out plug of the first water. He never saw Hamburg Belle + or Sysonby—they never mated. This plug's a seven-year-old, and he + couldn't do seven furlongs in seven weeks. He never was class, and never + could be. I don't want to ride a cow, I want a horse. Give me that + two-year-old black filly with the big shoulders. Whose is she?” + </p> + <p> + Crimmins shifted the cud again to hide his astonishment at Garrison's + sudden <i>savoir-faire</i>. + </p> + <p> + “She's wicked, sir. Bought for the missus, but she ain't broken yet.” + </p> + <p> + “She hasn't been handled right. Her mouth's hard, but her temper's even. + I'll ride her,” said Garrison shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Have to wear blinkers, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I won't. Saddle her. Hurry up. Shorten the stirrup. There, that's + right. Stand clear.” + </p> + <p> + Crimmins eyed Garrison narrowly as he mounted. He was quite prepared to + run with a clothes-basket to pick up the remains. But Garrison was up like + a feather, high on the filly's neck, his shoulders hunched. The minute he + felt the saddle between his knees he was at home again after a long, long + absence. He had come into his birthright. + </p> + <p> + The filly quivered for a moment, laid back her ears, and then was off. + </p> + <p> + “Cripes!” ejaculated the veracious Crimmins, as wide-eyed he watched the + filly fling gravel down the drove, “'e's got a seat like Billy Garrison + himself. 'E can ride, that kid. An' 'e knows 'orse-flesh. Blimy if 'e + don't! If Garrison weren't down an' out I'd be ready to tyke my Alfred + David it were 'is bloomin' self. An' I thought 'e was a dub! Ho, yuss—me!” + </p> + <p> + Moralizing on the deceptiveness of appearances, Crimmins fortified himself + with another slab of cut-plug. + </p> + <p> + Miss Desha, up on a big bay gelding with white stockings, was waiting on + the Logan Pike, where the driveway of Calvert House swept into it. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know that you're riding Midge, and that she's a hard case?” she + said ironically, as they cantered off together. “I'll bet you're thrown. + Is she the horse the major reserved for you? Surely not.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Garrison plaintively, “they picked me out a cow—a nice, + amiable cow; speedy as a traction-engine, and with as much action. This is + a little better.” + </p> + <p> + The girl was silent, eyeing him steadily through narrowed lids. + </p> + <p> + “You've never ridden before?” + </p> + <p> + “Um-m-m,” said Garrison; “why, yes, I suppose so.” He laughed in sudden + joy. “It feels so good,” he confided. + </p> + <p> + “You remind me of a person in a dream,” she said, after a little, still + watching him closely. “Nothing seems real to you—your past, I mean. + You only think you have done this and that.” + </p> + <p> + He was silent, biting his lip. + </p> + <p> + “Come on, I'll race you,” she cried suddenly. “To that big poplar down + there. See it? About two furlongs. I'll give you twenty yards' start. + Don't fall off.” + </p> + <p> + “I gave, never took, handicaps.” The words came involuntarily to + Garrison's surprise. “Come on; even up,” he added hurriedly. “Ready?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Let her out.” + </p> + <p> + The big bay gelding was off first, with the long, heart-breaking stride + that eats up the ground. The girl's laugh floated back tantalizingly over + her shoulder. Garrison hunched in the saddle, a smile on his lips. He knew + the quality of the flesh under him, and that it would not be absent at the + call. + </p> + <p> + “Tote in behind, girlie. He got the jump on you. That's it. Nip his + heels.” The seconds flew by like the trees; the big poplar rushed up. + “Now, now. Make a breeze, make a breeze,” sang out Garrison at the quarter + minute; and like a long, black streak of smoke the filly hunched past the + gelding, leaving it as if anchored. It was the old Garrison finish which + had been track-famous once upon a time, and as Garrison eased up his + hard-driven mount a queer feeling of exultation swelled his heart; a + feeling which he could not quite understand. + </p> + <p> + “Could I have been a jockey once?” he kept asking himself over and over. + “I wonder could I have been! I wonder!” + </p> + <p> + The next moment the gelding had ranged up alongside. + </p> + <p> + “I'll bet that was close to twenty-four, the track record,” said Garrison + unconsciously. “Pretty fair for dead and lumpy going, eh? Midge is a + comer, all right. Good weight-carrying sprinter. I fancy that gelding. + Properly ridden he would have given me a hard ride. We were even up on + weight.” + </p> + <p> + “And so you think I cannot ride properly!” added the girl quietly, + arranging her wind-blown hair. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. But women can't really ride class, you know. It isn't in them.” + </p> + <p> + She laughed a little. “I'm satisfied now. You know I was at the Carter + Handicap last year.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Garrison, unmoved. He met her eyes fairly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you know Rogue, father's horse, won. They say Sis, the favorite, had + the race, but was pulled in the stretch.” She was smiling a little. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed?” murmured Garrison, with but indifferent interest. + </p> + <p> + She glanced at him sharply, then fell to pleating the gelding's mane. + “Um-m-m,” she added softly. “Billy Garrison, you know, rode Sis.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, did he?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And, do you know, his seat was identical with yours?” She turned and + eyed him steadily. + </p> + <p> + “I'm flattered.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she continued dreamily, the smile at her lips; “it's funny, of + course, but Billy Garrison used to be my hero. We silly girls all have + one.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well,” observed Garrison, “I dare say any number of girls loved Billy + Garrison. Popular idol, you know——” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say,” she echoed dryly. “Possibly the dark, clinging kind.” + </p> + <p> + He eyed her wonderingly, but she was looking very innocently at the + peregrinating chipmunk. + </p> + <p> + “And it was so funny,” she ran on, as if she had not heard his observation + nor made one herself. “Coming home in the train from the Aqueduct the + evening of the handicap, father left me for a moment to go into the + smoking-car. And who do you think should be sitting opposite me, two seats + ahead, but—Who do you think?” Again she turned and held his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Why—some long-lost girl-chum, I suppose,” said Garrison candidly. + </p> + <p> + She laughed; a laugh that died and was reborn and died again in a throaty + gurgle. “Why, no, it was Billy Garrison himself. And I was being annoyed + by a beast of a man, when Mr. Garrison got up, ordered the beast out of + the seat beside me, and occupied it himself, saying it was his. It was + done so beautifully. And he did not try to take advantage of his courtesy + in the least. And then guess what happened.” Still her eyes held his. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” answered Garrison vaguely, “er—let me see. It seems as if I + had heard of that before somewhere. Let me see. Probably it got into the + papers—No, I cannot remember. It has gone. I have forgotten. And + what did happen next?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, father returned, saw Mr. Garrison raise his hat in answer to my + thanks, and, thinking he had tried to scrape an acquaintance with me, + threw him out of the seat. He did not recognize him.” + </p> + <p> + “That must have been a little bit tough on Garrison, eh?” laughed Garrison + idly. “Now that you mention it, it seems as if I had heard it.” + </p> + <p> + “I've always wanted to apologize to Mr. Garrison, though I do not know him—he + does not know me,” said the girl softly, pleating the gelding's mane at a + great rate. “It was all a mistake, of course. I wonder—I wonder if—if + he held it against me!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very likely he's forgotten all about it long ago,” said Garrison + cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + She bit her lip and was silent. “I wonder,” she resumed, at length, “if he + would like me to apologize and thank him—” She broke off, glancing + at him shyly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, you never met him again, did you?” asked Garrison. “So what + does it matter? Merely an incident.” + </p> + <p> + They rode a furlong in absolute silence. Again the girl was the first to + speak. “It is queer,” she moralized, “how fate weaves our lives. They run + along in threads, are interwoven for a time with others, dropped, and then + interwoven again. And what a pattern they make!” + </p> + <p> + “Meaning?” he asked absently. + </p> + <p> + She tapped her lips with the palm of her little gauntlet. + </p> + <p> + “That I think you are absurd.” + </p> + <p> + “I?” He started. “How? Why? I don't understand. What have I done now?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. That's just it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand.” + </p> + <p> + “No? Um-m-m, of course it is your secret. I am not trying to force a + confidence. You have your own reasons for not wishing your uncle and aunt + to know. But I never believed that Garrison threw the Carter Handicap. + Never, never, never. I—I thought you could trust me. That is all.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand a word—not a syllable,” said Garrison + restlessly. “What is it all about?” + </p> + <p> + The girl laughed, shrugging her shoulders. “Oh, nothing at all. The return + of a prodigal. Only I have a good memory for faces. You have changed, but + not very much. I only had to see you ride to be certain. But I suspected + from the start. You see, I admit frankly that you once were my hero. There + is only one Billy Garrison.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't see the moral to the parable.” He shook his head hopelessly. + </p> + <p> + “No?” She flushed and bit her lip. “William C. Dagget, you're Billy + Garrison, and you know it!” she said sharply, turning and facing him. + “Don't try to deny it. You are, are, are! I know it. You took that name + because you didn't wish your relatives to know who you were. Why don't you + 'fess up? What is the use of concealing it? You've nothing to be ashamed + of. You should be proud of your record. I'm proud of it. Proud—that—that—well, + that I rode a race with you to-day. You're hiding your identity; afraid of + what your uncle and aunt might say—afraid of that Carter Handicap + affair. As if we didn't know you always rode as straight as a string.” Her + cheeks were flushed, her eyes flashing. + </p> + <p> + Garrison eyed her steadily. His face was white, his breath coming hot and + hard. Something was beating—beating in his brain as if striving to + jam through. Finally he shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “No, you're wrong. It's a case of mistaken identity. I am not Garrison.” + </p> + <p> + Her gray eyes bored into his. “You really mean that—Billy?” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + “On your word of honor? By everything you hold most sacred? Take your time + in answering.” + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn't matter if I waited till the resurrection. I can't change + myself. I'm not Garrison. Faith of a gentleman, I'm not. Honestly, Sue.” + He laughed a little nervously. + </p> + <p> + Again her gray eyes searched his. She sighed. “Of course I take your + word.” + </p> + <p> + She fumbled in her bosom and brought forth a piece of paper, carefully + smoothing out its crumpled surface. Without a word she handed it to + Garrison, and he spread it out on his filly's mane. It was a photograph of + a jockey—Billy Garrison. The face was more youthful, care-free. + Otherwise it was a fair likeness. + </p> + <p> + “You'll admit it looks somewhat like you,” said Sue, with great dryness. + </p> + <p> + Garrison studied it long and carefully. “Yes—I do,” he murmured, in + a perplexed tone. “A double. Funny, isn't it? Where did you get it?” She + laughed a little, flushing. + </p> + <p> + “I was silly enough to think you were one and the same, and that you + wished to conceal your identity from your relatives. So I made occasion to + steal it from the book your aunt was about to read. Remember? It was the + leaf she thought the major had abstracted.” + </p> + <p> + “I must thank you for your kindness, even though it went astray. May I + have it?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es. And you are sure you are not the original?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't the slightest recollection of being Billy Garrison,” reiterated + Billy Garrison, wearily and truthfully. + </p> + <p> + The ride home was mostly one of silence. Both were thinking. As they came + within sight of Calvert House the girl turned to him: + </p> + <p> + “There is one thing you can do—ride. Like glory. Where did you more + than learn?” + </p> + <p> + “Must have been born with me.” + </p> + <p> + “What's bred in the bone will come out in the blood,” she quoted + enigmatically. She was smiling in a way that made Garrison vaguely + uncomfortable. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <h3> + SNARK SHOWS HIS FANGS. + </h3> + <p> + Alone in his room that night Garrison endeavored to focus the stray + thoughts, suspicions that the day's events had set running through his + brain. All Sue Desha had said, and had meant without saying, had been + photographed on the sensitized plate of his memory—that plate on + which the negatives of the past were but filmy shadows. Now, of them all, + the same Garrison was on the sky-line of his imagination. + </p> + <p> + Could it be possible that Billy Garrison and he were one and the same? And + then that incident of the train. Surely he had heard it before, somewhere + in the misty long ago. It seemed, too, as if it had occurred coincidently + with the moment he had first looked into those gray eyes. He laughed + nervously to himself. + </p> + <p> + “If I was Garrison, whoever he was, I wonder what kind of a person I was! + They speak of him as if he had been some one—And then Mrs. Calvert + said he had disappeared. Perhaps I am Garrison.” + </p> + <p> + Nervously he brought forth the page from the race-track annual Sue had + given him, and studied it intently. “Yes, it does look like me. But it may + be only a double; a coincidence.” He racked his brain for a stray gleam of + retrospect, but it was not forthcoming. “It's no use,” he sighed wearily, + “my life began when I left the hospital. And if I was Garrison, surely I + would have been recognized by some one in New York. + </p> + <p> + “Hold on,” he added eagerly, “I remember the first day I was out a man + caught me by the arm on Broadway and said: 'Hello, Billy!' Let me think. + This Garrison's name was Billy. The initials on my underwear were W. G.—might + be William Garrison instead of the William Good I took. But if so, how did + I come to be in the hospital without a friend in the world? The doctors + knew nothing of me. Haven't I any parents or relatives—real + relatives, not the ones I am imposing on?” + </p> + <p> + He sat on the bed endeavoring to recall some of his past life; even the + faintest gleam. Then absently he turned over the photograph he held. On + the reserve side of the leaf was the record of Billy Garrison. Garrison + studied it eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Born in eighty-two. Just my age, I guess—though I can't swear how + old I am, for I don't know. Stable-boy for James R. Keene. Contract bought + by Henry Waterbury. Highest price ever paid for bought-up contract. H'm! + Garrison was worth something. First win on the Gravesend track when + seventeen. A native of New York City. H'm! Rode two Suburban winners; two + Brooklyn Handicaps; Carter Handicap; the Grand Prix, France; the + Metropolitan Handicap; the English Derby—Oh, shucks! I never did all + those things; never in God's world,” he grunted wearily. “I wouldn't be + here if I had. It's all a mistake. I knew it was. Sue was kidding me. And + yet—they say the real Billy Garrison has disappeared. That's funny, + too.” + </p> + <p> + He took a few restless paces about the room. “I'll go down and pump the + major,” he decided finally. “Maybe unconsciously he'll help me to + remember. I'm in a fog. He ought to know Garrison. If I am Billy Garrison—then + by my present rank deception I've queered a good record. But I know I'm + not. I'm a nobody. A dishonest nobody to boot.” + </p> + <p> + Major Calvert was seated by his desk in the great old-fashioned library, + intently scanning various racing-sheets and the multitudinous data of the + track. A greater part of his time went to the cultivation of his one hobby—the + track and horses—for by reason of his financial standing, having + large cotton and real-estate holdings in the State, he could afford to use + business as a pastime. + </p> + <p> + He spent his mornings and afternoons either in his stables or at the + extensive training-quarters of his stud, where he was as indefatigable a + rail-bird as any pristine stable-boy. + </p> + <p> + A friendly rivalry had long existed between his neighbor and friend, + Colonel Desha, and himself in the matter of horse-flesh. The colonel was + from Kentucky—Kentucky origin—and his boast was that his + native State could not be surpassed either in regard to the quality of its + horses or women. And, though chivalrous, the colonel always mentioned + “women” last. + </p> + <p> + “Just look at Rogue and my daughter, Sue, suh,” he was wont to say with + pardonable pride. “Thoroughbreds both, suh.” + </p> + <p> + It was a matter of record that the colonel, though less financially able, + was a better judge of horses than his friend and rival, the major, and at + the various county meets it was Major Calvert who always ran second to + Colonel Desha's first. + </p> + <p> + The colonel's faith in Rogue had been vindicated at the last Carter + Handicap, and his owner was now stimulating his ambition for higher + flights. And thus far, the major, despite all his expenditures and lavish + care, could only show one county win for his stable. His friend's success + had aroused him, and deep down in his secret heart he vowed he would carry + off the next prize Colonel Desha entered for, even if it was one of the + classic handicaps itself. + </p> + <p> + Dixie, a three-year-old filly whom he had recently purchased, showed + unmistakable evidences of winning class in her try-outs, and her owner + watched her like a hawk, satisfaction in his heart, biding the time when + he might at last show Kentucky that her sister State, Virginia, could + breed a horse or two. + </p> + <p> + “I'll keep Dixie's class a secret,” he was wont to chuckle to himself, as, + perched on the rail in all sorts of weather, he clicked off her time. “I + think it is the Carter my learned friend will endeavor to capture again. + I'm sure Dixie can give Rogue five seconds in seven furlongs—and a + beating. That is, of course,” he always concluded, with good-humored + vexation, “providing the colonel doesn't pick up in New York an animal + that can give Dixie ten seconds. He has a knack of going from better to + best.” + </p> + <p> + Now Major Calvert glanced up with a smile as Garrison entered. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you were in bed, boy. Leave late hours to age. You're looking + better these days. I think Doctor Blandly's open-air physic is first-rate, + eh? By the way, Crimmins tells me you were out on Midge to-day, and that + you ride—well, like Billy Garrison himself. Of course he always + exaggerates, but you didn't say you could ride at all. Midge is a hard + animal.” He eyed Garrison with some curiosity. “Where did you learn to + ride? I thought you had had no time nor means for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I merely know a horse's tail from his head,” laughed Garrison + indifferently. “Speaking of Garrison, did you ever see him ride, major?” + </p> + <p> + “How many times have I asked you to say uncle, not major?” reproved Major + Calvert. “Don't you feel as if you were my nephew, eh? If there's anything + I've left undone—” + </p> + <p> + “You've been more than kind,” blurted out Garrison uncomfortably. “More + than good—uncle.” He was hating himself. He could not meet the + major's kindly eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Tut, tut, my boy, no fine speeches. Apropos of this Garrison, why are you + so interested in him? Wish to emulate him, eh? Yes, I've seen him ride, + but only once, when he was a bit of a lad. I fancy Colonel Desha is the + one to give you his merits. You know Garrison's old owner, Mr. Waterbury, + is returning with the colonel. He will be his guest for a week or so.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Garrison slowly. “And who is this Garrison riding for now?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. I haven't followed him. It seems as if I heard there was + some disagreement or other between him and Mr. Waterbury; over that Carter + Handicap, I think. By the way, if you take an interest in horses, and + Crimmins tells me you have an eye for class, you rascal, come out to the + track with me to-morrow. I've got a filly which I think will give the + colonel's Rogue a hard drive. You know, if the colonel enters for the next + Carter, I intend to contest it with him—and win.” He chuckled. + </p> + <p> + “Then you don't know anything about this Garrison?” persisted Garrison + slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing more than I've said. He was a first-class boy in his time. A boy + I'd like to have seen astride of Dixie. Such stars come up quickly and + disappear as suddenly. The life's against them, unless they possess a hard + head. But Mr. Waterbury, when he arrives, can, I dare say, give you all + the information you wish. By the way,” he added, a twinkle in his eye, + “what do you think of the colonel's other thoroughbred? I mean Miss + Desha?” + </p> + <p> + Garrison felt the hot blood mounting to his face. “I—I—that + is, I—I like her. Very much indeed.” He laughed awkwardly, his eyes + on the parquet floor. + </p> + <p> + “I knew you would, boy. There's good blood in that girl—the best in + the States. Perhaps a little odd, eh? But, remember, straight speech means + a straight mind. You see, the families have always been all in all to each + other; the colonel is a school-chum of mine—we're never out of + school in this world—and my wife was a nursery-chum of Sue's mother—she + was killed on the hunting-field ten years ago. Your aunt and I have always + regarded the girl as our own. God somehow neglected to give us a chick—probably + we would have neglected Him for it. We love children. So we've cottoned + all the more to Sue.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand that Sue and I are intended for each other,” observed + Garrison, a half-cynical smile at his lips. + </p> + <p> + “God bless my soul! How did you guess?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, she said so.” + </p> + <p> + Major Calvert chuckled. “God bless my soul again! That's Sue all over. + She'd ask the devil himself for a glass of water if she was in the hot + place, and insist upon having ice in it. 'Pon my soul she would. And what + does she think of you? Likes you, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “No, she doesn't,” replied Garrison quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Tell you as much, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Again Major Calvert chuckled. “Well, she told me different. Oh, yes, she + did, you rascal. And I know Sue better than you do. Family wishes wouldn't + weigh with her a particle if she didn't like the man. No, they wouldn't. + She isn't the kind to give her hand where her heart isn't. She likes you. + It remains with you to make her love you.” + </p> + <p> + “And that's impossible,” added Garrison grimly to himself. “If she only + knew! Love? Lord!” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute,” said the major, as Garrison prepared to leave. “Here's a + letter that came for you to-day. It got mixed up in my mail by accident.” + He opened the desk-drawer and handed a square envelope to Garrison, who + took it mechanically. “No doubt you've a good many friends up North,” + added the major kindly. “Have 'em down here for as long as they can stay. + Calvert House is open night and day. I do not want you to think that + because you are here you have to give up old friends. I'm generous enough + to share you with them, but—no elopements, mind.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it's merely a business letter,” replied Garrison indifferently, + hiding his burning curiosity. He did not know who his correspondent could + possibly be. Something impelled him to wait until he was alone in his room + before opening it. It was from the eminent lawyer, Theobald D. Snark. + </p> + <p> + “BELOVED IMPOSTOR: '<i>Ars longa, vita brevis</i>,' as the philosopher has + truly said, which in the English signifies that I cannot afford to wait + for the demise of the reverend and guileless major before I garner the + second fruits of my intelligence. Ten thousand is a mere pittance in New + York—one's appetite develops with cultivation, and mine has been + starved for years—and I find I require an income. Fifty a week or + thereabouts will come in handy for the present. I know you have access to + the major's pocketbook, it being situated on the same side as his heart, + and I will expect a draft by following mail. He will be glad to indulge + the sporting blood of youth. If I cannot share the bed of roses, I can at + least fatten on the smell. I would have to be compelled to tell the major + what a rank fraud and unsurpassed liar his supposed nephew is. So good a + liar that he even imposed upon me. Of course I thought you were the real + nephew, and it horrifies me to know that you are a fraud. But, remember, + silence is golden. If you feel any inclination of getting fussy, remember + that I am a lawyer, and that I can prove I took your claim in good faith. + Also, the Southerners are notoriously hot-tempered, deplorably addicted to + firearms, and I don't think you would look a pretty sight if you happened + to get shot full of buttonholes.” + </p> + <p> + The letter was unsigned, typewritten, and on plain paper. But Garrison + knew whom it was from. It was the eminent lawyer's way not to place + damaging evidence in the hands of a prospective enemy. + </p> + <p> + “This means blackmail,” commented Garrison, carefully replacing the letter + in its envelope. “And it serves me right. I wonder do I look silly. I + must; for people take me for a fool.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <h3> + THE COLONEL'S CONFESSION. + </h3> + <p> + Garrison did not sleep that night. His position was clearly credited and + debited in the ledger of life. He saw it; saw that the balance was against + him. He must go—but he could not, would not. He decided to take the + cowardly, half-way measure. He had not the courage for renunciation. He + would stay until this pot of contumacious fact came to the boil, + overflowed, and scalded him out. + </p> + <p> + He was not afraid of the eminent Mr. Snark. Possession is in reality + ten-tenths of the law. The lawyer had cleverly proven his—Garrison's—claim. + He would be still more clever if he could disprove it. A lie can never be + branded truth by a liar. How could he disprove it? How could his shoddy + word weigh against Garrison's, fashioned from the whole cloth and with + loyalty, love on Garrison's side? + </p> + <p> + No, the letter was only a bluff. Snark would not run the risk of publicly + smirching himself—for who would believe his protestations of + innocency?—losing his license at the bar together with the certainty + of a small fortune, for the sake of over-working a tool that might snap in + his hand or cut both ways. So Garrison decided to disregard the letter. + </p> + <p> + But with Waterbury it was a different proposition. Garrison was unaware + what his own relations had been with his former owner, but even if they + had been the most cordial, which from Major Calvert's accounts they had + not been, that fact would not prevent Waterbury divulging the rank fraud + Garrison was perpetrating. + </p> + <p> + The race-track annual had said Billy Garrison had followed the ponies + since boyhood. Waterbury would know his ancestry, if any one would. It was + only a matter of time until exposure came, but still Garrison determined + to procrastinate as long as possible. He clung fiercely, with the fierce + tenacity of despair, to his present life. He could not renounce it all—not + yet. + </p> + <p> + Two hopes, secreted in his inner consciousness, supported indecision. One: + Perhaps Waterbury might not recognize him, or perhaps he could safely keep + out of his way. The second: Perhaps he himself was not Billy Garrison at + all; for coincidence only said that he was, and a very small modicum of + coincidence at that. This fact, if true, would cry his present panic + groundless. + </p> + <p> + On the head of conscience, Garrison did not touch. He smothered it. All + that he forced himself to sense was that he was “living like a white man + for once”; loving as he never thought he could love. + </p> + <p> + The reverse, unsightly side of the picture he would not so much as glance + at. Time enough when he was again flung out on that merciless, + unrecognizing world he had come to loathe; loathe and dread. When that + time came it would taste exceeding bitter in his mouth. All the more + reason, then, to let the present furnish sweet food for retrospect; food + that would offset the aloes of retribution. Thus Garrison philosophized. + </p> + <p> + And, though but vaguely aware of the fact, this philosophy of + procrastination (but another form of selfishness) was the spawn of a + supposition; the supposition that his love for Sue Desha was not returned; + that it was hopeless, absurd. He was not injuring her. He was the moth, + she the flame. He did not realize that the moth can extinguish the candle. + </p> + <p> + He had learned some of life's lessons, though the most difficult had been + forgotten, but he had yet to understand the mighty force of love; that it + contains no stagnant quality. Love, reciprocal love, uplifts. But there + must be that reciprocal condition to cling to. For love is not selfishness + on a grand scale, but a glorified pride. And the fine differentiation + between these two words is the line separating the love that fouls from + the love that cleanses. + </p> + <p> + And even as Garrison was fighting out the night with his sleepless + thoughts, Sue Desha was in the same restless condition. Mr. Waterbury had + arrived. His generous snores could be heard stalking down the corridor + from the guest-chamber. He was of the abdominal variety of the animal + species, eating and sleeping his way through life, oblivious of all + obstacles. + </p> + <p> + Waterbury's ancestry was open to doubt. It was very vague; as vague as his + features. It could not be said that he was brought up by his hair because + he hadn't any to speak of. But the golden flood of money he commanded + could not wash out certain gutter marks in his speech, person, and manner. + That such an inmate should eat above the salt in Colonel Desha's home was + a painful acknowledgment of the weight of necessity. + </p> + <p> + What the necessity was, Sue sensed but vaguely. It was there, + nevertheless, almost amounting to an obsession. For when the Desha and + Waterbury type commingle there is but the one interpretation. Need of + money or clemency in the one case; need of social introduction or + elevation through kinship in the other. + </p> + <p> + The latter was Waterbury's case. But he also loved Sue—in his own + way. He had met her first at the Carter Handicap, and, as he confided to + himself: “She was a spanking filly, of good stock, and with good straight + legs.” + </p> + <p> + His sincere desire to “butt into the Desha family” he kept for the moment + to himself. But as a preliminary maneuver he had intimated that a visit to + the Desha home would not come in amiss. And the old colonel, for reasons + he knew and Waterbury knew, thought it would be wisest to accede. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps now the colonel was considering those reasons. His room was next + that of his daughter, and in her listening wakefulness she had heard him + turn restlessly in bed. Insomnia loves company as does misery. Presently + the colonel arose, and the strong smell of Virginia tobacco and the + monotonous pad, pad of list slippers made themselves apparent. + </p> + <p> + Sue threw on a dressing-gown and entered her father's room. He was in a + light green bathrobe, his white hair tousled like sea-foam as he passed + and repassed his gaunt fingers through it. + </p> + <p> + “I can't sleep,” said the girl simply. She cuddled in a big armchair, her + feet tucked under her. + </p> + <p> + He put a hand on her shoulder. “I can't, either,” he said, and laughed a + little, as if incapable of understanding the reason. “I think late eating + doesn't agree with me. It must have been the deviled crab.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Waterbury?” suggested Sue. + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” Then Colonel Desha frowned, coughed, and finally laughed. “Still a + child, I see,” he added, with a deprecating shake of the head. “Will you + ever grow up?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—when you recognize that I have.” She pressed her cheek against + the hand on her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Sue practically managed the entire house, looking after the servants, + expenses, and all, but the colonel always referred to her as “my little + girl.” He was under the amiable delusion that time had left her at the + ten-mile mark, never to return. + </p> + <p> + This was one of but many defects in his vision. He was oblivious of + materialistic facts. He was innocent of the ways of finance. He had come + of a prodigal race of spenders, not accumulators. Away back somewhere in + the line there must have existed what New Englanders term a “good + provider,” but that virtue had not descended from father to son. The + original vast Desha estates decreased with every generation, seldom a + descendant making even a spasmodic effort to replenish them. There was + always a mortgage or sale in progress. Sometimes a lucrative as well as + love-marriage temporarily increased the primal funds, but more often the + opposite was the case. + </p> + <p> + The Deshas, like all true Southerners, believed that love was the only + excuse for marriage; just as most Northerners believe that labor is the + only excuse for living. And so the colonel, with no business incentive, + acumen, or adaptability, and with the inherited handicap of a luxurious + living standard, made a brave onslaught on his patrimony. + </p> + <p> + What the original estate was, or to what extent the colonel had encroached + upon it, Sue never rightly knew. She had been brought up in the old faith + that a Southerner is lord of the soil, but as she developed, the fact was + forced home upon her that her father was not materialistic, and that ways + and means were. + </p> + <p> + Twice yearly their Kentucky estate yielded an income. As soon as she + understood affairs, Sue took a stand which could not be shaken, even if + the easy-going mooning colonel had exerted himself to that extent. She + insisted upon using one-half the yearly income for household expenses; the + other the colonel could fritter away as he chose upon his racing-stable + and his secondary hobby—an utterly absurd stamp collection. + </p> + <p> + Only each household knows how it meets the necessity of living. It is + generally the mother and daughter, if there be one, who comprise the inner + finance committee. Men are only Napoleons of finance when the market is + strong and steady. When it becomes panicky and fluctuates and resolves + itself into small unheroic deals, woman gets the job. For the world is + principally a place where men work for the pleasures and woman has to + cringe for the scraps. It may seem unchivalrous, but true nevertheless. + </p> + <p> + Only Sue knew how she compelled one dollar to bravely do the duty of two. + Appearances are never so deceitful as in the household where want is + apparently scorned. Sue was of the breed who, if necessary, could raise + absolute pauperism to the peerage. And if ever a month came in which she + would lie awake nights, developing the further elasticity of currency, + certainly her neighbors knew aught of it, and her father least of all. + </p> + <p> + The colonel recommenced his pacing. Sue, hands clasped around knees, + watched him with steady, unwinking eyes. + </p> + <p> + “It's not the deviled crab, daddy,” she said quietly, at length. “It's + something else. 'Fess up. You're in trouble. I feel it. Sit down there and + let me go halves on it. Sit down.” + </p> + <p> + Colonel Desha vaguely passed a hand through his hair, then, mechanically + yielding to the superior strength and self-control of his daughter, eased + himself into an opposite armchair. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, you're quite wrong, quite wrong,” he reiterated absently. “I'm + only tired. Only tired, girlie. That's all. Been very busy, you know.” And + he ran on feverishly, talking about Waterbury, weights, jockeys, mounts—all + the jargon of the turf. The dam of his mind had given way, and a flood of + thoughts, hopes, fears came rioting forth unchecked, unthinkingly. + </p> + <p> + His eyes were vacant, a frown dividing his white brows, the thin hand on + the table closing and relaxing. He was not talking to his daughter, but to + his conscience. It was the old threadbare, tattered tale—spawn of + the Goddess fortune; a thing of misbegotten hopes and desires. + </p> + <p> + The colonel, swollen with the winning of the Carter Handicap, had + conceived the idea that he was possessor of a God-given knowledge of the + “game.” And there had been many to sustain that belief. Now, the colonel + might know a horse, but he did not know the law of averages, of chance, + nor did he even know how his fellow man's heart is fashioned. Nor that + track fortunes are only made by bookies or exceptionally wealthy or brainy + owners; that a plunger comes out on top once in a million times. That the + track, to live, must bleed “suckers” by the thousand, and that he, Colonel + Desha, was one of the bled. + </p> + <p> + He was on the wrong side of the table. The Metropolitan, Brooklyn, + Suburban, Brighton, Futurity, and a few minor meets served to swamp the + colonel. What Waterbury had to do with the case was not clear. The colonel + had taken his advice time and time again only to lose. But the Kentucky + estate had been sold, and Mr. Waterbury held the mortgage of the Desha + home. And then, his mind emptied of its poison, the colonel slowly came to + himself. + </p> + <p> + “What—what have I been saying?” he cried tensely. He attempted a + laugh, a denial; caught his daughter's eyes, looked into them, and then + buried his face in his quivering hands. + </p> + <p> + Sue knelt down and raised his head. + </p> + <p> + “Daddy, is that—all?” she asked steadily. + </p> + <p> + He did not answer. Then, man as he was, the blood came sweeping to face + and neck. + </p> + <p> + “I mean,” added the girl quietly, her eyes, steady but very kind, holding + his, “I had word from the National this morning saying that our account, + the—the balance, was overdrawn—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I drew against it,” whispered Colonel Desha. He would not meet + her eyes; he who had looked every man in the face. The fire caught him + again. “I had to, girlie, I had to,” he cried over and over again. “I + intended telling you. We'll make it up a hundred times over. It was my + only chance. It's all up on the books—up on The Rogue. He'll win the + Carter as sure as there's a God in heaven. It's a ten-thousand stake, and + I've had twenty on him—the balance—your balance, girlie. I can + pay off Waterbury—” The fire died away as quickly. Somehow in the + stillness of the room, against the look in the girl's eyes, words seemed + so pitifully futile, so blatant, so utterly trivial. + </p> + <p> + Sue's face was averted, eyes on floor, hands tensely clasping those of her + father. Absolute stillness held the room. The colonel was staring at the + girl's bent head. + </p> + <p> + “It's—it's all right, girlie. All right, don't fret,” he murmured + thickly. “The Rogue will win—bound to win. You don't understand—you're + only a girl—only a child——” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, Daddy,” agreed Sue slowly, wide-eyed. “I'm only a child. I + don't understand.” + </p> + <p> + But she understood more than her father. She was thinking of Billy + Garrison. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> + <h3> + A BREATH OF THE OLD LIFE. + </h3> + <p> + Major Calvert's really interested desire to see his pseudo nephew astride + a mount afforded Garrison the legitimate opportunity of keeping clear of + Mr. Waterbury for the next few days. The track was situated some three + miles from Calvert House—a modern racing-stable in every sense of + the word—and early the next morning Garrison started forth, + accompanied by the indefatigable major. + </p> + <p> + Curiosity was stirring in the latter's heart. He had long been searching + for a fitting rider for the erratic and sensitive Dixie—whimsical + and uncertain of taste as any woman—and though he could not bring + himself to believe in Crimmins' eulogy of Garrison's riding ability, he + was anxious to ascertain how far the trainer had erred. + </p> + <p> + Crimmins was not given to airing his abortive sense of humor overmuch, and + he was a sound judge of horse and man. If he was right—but the major + had to laugh at such a possibility. Garrison to ride like that! He who had + confessed he had never thrown a leg over a horse before! By a freak of + nature he might possess the instinct but not the ability. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps he even might possess the qualifications of an exercise-boy; he + had the build—a stripling who possessed both sinew and muscle, but + who looked fatty tissue. But the major well knew that it is one thing to + qualify as an exercise-boy and quite another to toe the mark as a jockey. + For the former it is only necessary to have good hands, a good seat in the + saddle, and to implicitly obey a trainer's instructions. No initiative is + required. But it is absolutely essential that a boy should own all these + adjuncts and many others—quickness of perception, unlimited daring, + and alertness to make a jockey. No truer summing up of the necessary + qualifications is there than the old and famous “Father Bill” Daly's + doggerel and appended note: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Just a tinge of wickedness, + With a touch of devil-may-care; + Just a bit of bone and meat, + With plenty of nerve to dare. + And, on top of all things—he must be a tough kid.” + </pre> + <p> + And “Father Bill” Daly ought to know above all others, for he has trained + more famous jockeys than any other man in America. + </p> + <p> + There are two essential points in the training of race-horses—secrecy + and ability. Crimmins possessed both, but the scheduled situation of the + Calvert stables rendered the secret “trying out” of racers before track + entry unnecessary. It is only fair to state that if Major Calvert had left + his trainer to his own judgment his stable would have made a better + showing than it had. But the major's disposition and unlimited time caused + him more often than not to follow the racing paraphrase: “Dubs butt in + where trainers fear to tread.” + </p> + <p> + He was so enthusiastic and ignorant over horses that he insisted upon + campaigns that had only the merit of good intentions to recommend them. + Some highly paid trainers throw up their positions when their millionaire + owners assume the role of dictator, but Crimmins very seldom lost his + temper. The major was so boyishly good-hearted and bull-headed that + Crimmins had come to view his master's racing aspirations almost as an + expensive joke. + </p> + <p> + However, it seemed that the Carter Handicap and the winning by his very + good friend and neighbor, Colonel Desha, had stuck firmly in Major + Calvert's craw. He promised to faithfully follow his trainer's directions + and leave for the nonce the preparatory training entirely in his hands. + </p> + <p> + It was decided now that Garrison should try out the fast black filly + Dixie, just beginning training for the Carter. She had a hundred and + twenty-five pounds of grossness to boil down before making track weight, + but the opening spring handicap was five months off, and Crimmins believed + in the “slow and sure” adage. Major Calvert, his old weather-beaten duster + fluttering in the wind, took his accustomed perch on the rail, while + Garrison prepared to get into racing-togs. + </p> + <p> + The blood was pounding in Garrison's heart as he lightly swung up on the + sleek black filly. The old, nameless longing, the insistent thought that + he had done all this before—to the roar of thousands of voices—possessed + him. + </p> + <p> + Instinctively he understood his mount; her defects, her virtues. + Instinctively he sensed that she was not a “whip horse.” A touch of the + whalebone and she would balk—stop dead in her stride. He had known + such horses before, generally fillies. + </p> + <p> + As soon as Garrison's feet touched stirrups all the condensed, colossal + knowledge of track and horse-flesh, gleaned by the sweating labor of + years, came tingling to his finger-tips. Judgment, instinct, daring, + nerve, were all his; at his beck and call; serving their master. He felt + every inch the veteran he was—though he knew it not. It was not a + freak of nature. He had worked, worked hard for knowledge, and it would + not be denied. He felt as he used to feel before he had “gone back.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison took Dixie over the seven furlongs twice, and in a manner, + despite her grossness, the mare had never been taken before. She ran as + easily, as relentlessly, without a hitch or break, as fine-spun silk slips + through a shuttle. She was high-strung, sensitive to a degree, but + Garrison understood her, and she answered his knowledge loyally. + </p> + <p> + It was impressive riding to those who knew the filly's irritability, + uncertainty. Clean-cut veteran horsemanship, with horse and rider as one; + a mechanically precise pace, heart-breaking for a following field. The + major slowly climbed off the rail, mechanically eyeing his watch. He was + unusually quiet, but there was a light in his eyes that forecasted + disaster for his very good friend and neighbor, Colonel Desha, and The + Rogue. It is even greater satisfaction, did we but acknowledge it, to turn + the tables on a friend than on a foe. + </p> + <p> + “Boy,” he said impressively, laying a hand on Garrison's shoulder and + another on Dixie's flank, “I've been looking for some one to ride Dixie in + the Carter—some one who could ride; ride and understand. I've found + that some one in my nephew. You'll ride her—ride as no one else can. + God knows how you learned the game—I don't. But know it you do. Nor + do I pretend to know how you understand the filly. I don't understand it + at all. It must be a freak of nature.” + </p> + <p> + “Ho, yuss!” added Crimmins quietly, his eye on the silent Garrison. “Ho, + yuss! It must be a miracle. But I tell you, major, it ain't no miracle. It + ain't. That boy 'as earned 'is class. 'E could understand any 'orse. 'E's + earned 'is class. It don't come to a chap in the night. 'E's got to slave + f'r it—slave 'ard. Ho, yuss! Your neffy can ride, an' 'e can s'y wot + 'e likes, but if 'e ain't modeled on Billy Garrison 'isself, then I'm a + bloomin' bean-eating Dutchman! 'E's th' top spit of Garrison—th' top + spit of 'im, or may I never drink agyn!” + </p> + <p> + There was sincerity, good feeling, and force behind the declaration, and + the major eyed Garrison intently and with some curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “Come, haven't you ridden before, eh?” he asked good-humoredly. “It's no + disgrace, boy. Is it hard-won science, as Crimmins says, or merely an + unbelievable and curious freak of nature, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Garrison looked the major in the eye. His heart was pounding. + </p> + <p> + “If I've ever ridden a mount before—I've never known it,” he said, + with conviction and truth. + </p> + <p> + Crimmins shook his head in hopeless despair. The major was too + enthusiastic to quibble over how the knowledge was gained. It was there in + overflowing abundance. That was enough. Besides, his nephew's word was his + bond. He would as soon think of doubting the Bible. + </p> + <p> + For the succeeding days Garrison and the major haunted the track. It was + decided that the former should wear his uncle's colors in the Carter, and + he threw himself into the training of Dixie with all his painstaking + energy and knowledge. + </p> + <p> + He proved a valuable adjunct to Crimmins; rank was waived in the stables, + and a sincere regard sprang up between master and man, based on the + fundamental qualities of real manhood and a mutual passion for + horse-flesh. And if the acid little cockney suspected that Garrison had + ever carried a jockey's license or been track-bred, he respected the + other's silence, and refrained from broaching the question again. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, to all appearances, things were running in the harmonious + groove over at the Desha home. Since the night of Mr. Waterbury's arrival + Sue had not mentioned the subject of the overdrawn balance, and the + colonel had not. If the girl thought her father guilty of a slight breach + of honor, no hint of it was conveyed either in speech or manner. + </p> + <p> + She was broad-minded—the breadth and depth of perfect health and a + clean heart. If she set up a high standard for herself, it was not to + measure others by. The judgment of man entered into no part of her + character; least of all, the judgment of a parent. + </p> + <p> + As for the colonel, it was apparent that he was not on speaking terms with + his conscience. It made itself apparent in countless foolish little ways; + in countless little means of placating his daughter—a favorite book, + a song, a new saddle. These votive offerings were tendered in subdued + silence fitting to the occasion, but Sue always lauded them to the skies. + Nor would she let him see that she understood the contrition working in + him. To Colonel Desha she was no longer “my little girl,” but “my + daughter.” Very often we only recognize another's right and might by being + in the wrong and weak ourselves. + </p> + <p> + Every spare minute of his day—and he had many—the colonel + spent in his stables superintending the training of The Rogue. He was + infinitely worse than a mother with her first child. If the latter acts as + if she invented maternity, one would have thought the colonel had + fashioned the gelding as the horse of Troy was fashioned. + </p> + <p> + The Rogue's success meant everything to him—everything in the world. + He would be obliged to win. Colonel Desha was not one who believed in + publishing a daily “agony column.” He could hold his troubles as he could + his drink—like a gentleman. He had not intended that Sue should be + party to them, but that night of the confession they had caught him + unawares. And he played the host to Mr. Waterbury as only a Southern + gentleman can. + </p> + <p> + That the turfman had motives other than mere friendship and regard when + proffering his advice and financial assistance, the colonel never + suspected. It was a further manifestation of his childish streak and his + ignorance of his fellow man. His great fault was in estimating his + neighbor by his own moral code. It had never occurred to him that + Waterbury loved Sue, and that he had forced his assistance while helping + to create the necessity for that assistance, merely as a means of lending + some authority to his suit. But Waterbury possessed many likable + qualities; he had stood friend to Colonel Desha, whatever his motives, and + the latter honored him on his own valuation. + </p> + <p> + Fear never would have given the turfman the entrée to the Desha home; only + friendship. Down South hospitality is sacred. When one has succeeded in + entering a household he is called kin. A mutual trust and bond of honor + exist between host and guest. The mere formula; “So-and-So is my guest,” + is a clean bill of moral health. Therefore, in whatever light Sue may have + regarded Mr. Waterbury, her treatment of him was uniformly courteous and + kindly. + </p> + <p> + Necessarily they saw much of each other. The morning rides, formerly with + Garrison, were now taken with Mr. Waterbury. This was owing partly to the + former's close application to the track, partly to the courtesy due guest + from hostess whose father is busily engaged, and in the main to a concrete + determination on Sue's part. This intimacy with Sue Desha was destined to + work a change in Waterbury. + </p> + <p> + He had come unworthy to the Desha home. He acknowledged that to himself. + Come with the purpose of compelling his suit, if necessary. His love had + been the product of his animalistic nature. It was a purely sensual + appeal. He had never known the true interpretation of love; never + experienced the society of a womanly woman. But it is in every nature to + respond to the highest touch; to the appeal of honor. When trust is + reposed, fidelity answers. It did its best to answer in Waterbury's case. + His better self was slowly awakening. + </p> + <p> + Those days were wonderful, new, happy days for Waterbury. He was received + on the footing of guest, good comrade. He was fighting to cross the line, + searching for the courage necessary—he who had watched without the + flicker of an eyelash a fortune lost by an inch of horse-flesh. And if the + girl knew, she gave no sign. + </p> + <p> + As for Garrison, despite his earnest attention to the track, those were + unhappy days for him. He thought that he had voluntarily given up Sue's + society; given it up for the sake of saving his skin; for the fear of + meeting Waterbury. Time and time again he determined to face the turfman + and learn the worst. Cowardice always stepped in. Presently Waterbury + would leave for the North, and things then would be as they had been. + </p> + <p> + He hated himself for his cowardice; for his compromise with self-respect. + It was not that he valued Sue's regard so lightly. Rather he feared to + lose the little he had by daring all. He did not know that Sue had given + him up. Did not know that she was hurt, mortally hurt; that her + renunciation had not been necessary; that he had not given her the + opportunity. He had stayed away, and she wondered. There could be but the + one answer. He must hate this tie between them; this parent-fostered + engagement. He was thinking of the girl he had left up North. Perhaps it + was better for her, she argued, that she had determined upon renunciation. + </p> + <p> + Obviously Major Calvert and his wife noticed the breach in the + Garrison-Desha entente cordiale. They credited it to some childish + quarrel. They were wise in their generation. Old heads only muddle young + hearts. To confer the dignity of age upon the differences of youth but + serves to turn a mole-hill into a mountain. + </p> + <p> + But one memorable evening, when the boyish and enthusiastic major and + Garrison returned from an all-day session at the track, they found Mrs. + Calvert in a very quiet and serious mood, which all the major's cajolery + could not penetrate. And after dinner she and the major had a peace + conference in the library, at the termination of which the doughty major's + feathers were considerably agitated. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Calvert's good nature was not the good nature of the faint-hearted or + weak-kneed. She was never at loss for words, nor the spirit to back them + when she considered conditions demanded them. Subsequently, when his wife + retired, the major, very red in the face, called Garrison into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, demmit, boy,” he began, fussing up and down, “I've noticed, of + course, that you and Sue don't pull in the same boat. Now, I thought it + was due to a little tiff, as soon straightened as tangled, when pride once + stopped goading you on. But your aunt, boy, has other ideas on the subject + which she had been kindly imparting to me. And it seems that I'm entirely + to blame. She says that I've caused you to neglect Sue for Dixie. Eh, boy, + is that so?” He paused, eyeing Garrison in distress. + </p> + <p> + “No, it is not,” said Garrison heavily. “It is entirely my fault.” + </p> + <p> + The major heartily sighed his relief. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, demmit, I said as much to your aunt, but she knows I'm an old sinner, + and she has her doubts. I told her if you could neglect Sue for Dixie your + love wasn't worth a rap. I knew there was something back of it. Well, you + must go over to-night and straighten it out. These little tiffs have to be + killed early—like spring chickens. Sue has her dander up, I tell + you. She met your aunt to-day. Said flatly that she had broken the + engagement; that it was final—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she did?” was all Garrison could find to interrupt with. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, demmit; pride, boy, pride,” said the major confidently. “Now, run + along over and apologize; scratch humble gravel—clear down to China, + if necessary. And mind you do it right proper. Some people apologize by + saying: 'If I've said anything I'm sorry for, I'm glad of it.' Eh, demmit, + remember never to compete for the right with a woman. Women are always + right. Man shouldn't be his own press-agent. It's woman's position—and + delight. She values man on her own valuation—not his. Women are + illogical—that's why they marry us.” + </p> + <p> + The major concluded his advice by giving Garrison a hearty thump on the + back. Then he prepared to charge his wife's boudoir; to resume the peace + conference with right on his side for the nonce. + </p> + <p> + Garrison slowly made his way down-stairs. His face was set. He knew his + love for Sue was hopeless; an absurdity, a crime. But why had she broken + the engagement? Had Waterbury said anything? He would go over and face + Waterbury; face him and be done with it. He was reckless, desperate. As he + descended the wide veranda steps a man stepped from behind a magnolia-tree + shadowing the broad walk. A clear three-quarter moon was riding in the + heavens, and it picked out Garrison's thin set face. + </p> + <p> + The man swung up, and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hello, Bud!” + </p> + <p> + It was Dan Crimmins. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> + <h3> + “THEN I WAS NOT HONEST.” + </h3> + <p> + Garrison eyed him coldly, and was about to pass when Crimmins barred his + way. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose when you gets up in the world, it ain't your way to know folks + you knew before, is it?” he asked gently. “But Dan Crimmins has a heart, + an' it ain't his way to shake friends, even if they has money. It ain't + Crimmins' way.” + </p> + <p> + “Take your hand off my shoulder,” said Garrison steadily. + </p> + <p> + The other's black brows met, but he smiled genially. + </p> + <p> + “It don't go, Bud. No, no.” He shook his head. “Try that on those who + don't know you. I know you. You're Billy Garrison; I'm Dan Crimmins. Now, + if you want me to blow in an' tell the major who you are, just say so. I'm + obligin'. It's Crimmins' way. But if you want to help an old friend who's + down an' out, just say so. I'm waitin'.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison eyed him. Crimmins? Crimmins? The name was part of his dream. + What had he been to this man? What did this man know? + </p> + <p> + “Take a walk down the pike,” suggested the other easily. “It ain't often + you have the pleasure of seein' an old friend, an' the excitement is a + little too much for you. I know how it is,” he added sympathetically. He + was closely watching Garrison's face. + </p> + <p> + Garrison mechanically agreed, wondering. + </p> + <p> + “It's this way,” began Crimmins, once the shelter of the pike was gained. + “I'm Billy Crimmins' brother—the chap who trains for Major Calvert. + Now, I was down an' out—I guess you know why—an' so I wrote + him askin' for a little help. An' he wouldn't give it. He's what you might + call a lovin', confidin', tender young brother. But he mentioned in his + letter that Bob Waterbury was here, and he asked why I had left his + service. Some things don't get into the papers down here, an' it's just as + well. You know why I left Waterbury. Waterbury——!” + </p> + <p> + Here Crimmins carefully selected a variety of adjectives with which to + decorate the turfman. He also spoke freely about the other's ancestors, + and concluded with voicing certain dark convictions regarding Mr. + Waterbury's future. + </p> + <p> + Garrison listened blankly. “What's all this to me?” he asked sharply. “I + don't know you nor Mr. Waterbury.” + </p> + <p> + “Hell you don't!” rapped out Crimmins. “Quit that game. I may have done + things against you, but I've paid for them. You can't touch me on that + count, but I can touch you, for I know you ain't the major's nephew—no + more than the Sheik of Umpooba. I'm ashamed of you. Tryin' on a game like + that with your old trainer, who knows you—” + </p> + <p> + Garrison caught him fiercely by the arm. His old trainer! Then he was + Billy Garrison. Memory was fighting furiously. He was on fire. “Billy + Garrison, Billy Garrison, Billy Garrison,” he repeated over and over, + shaking Crimmins like a reed. “Go on, go on, go on,” he panted. “Tell me + what you know about me. Go on, go on. Am I Garrison? Am I? Am I?” + </p> + <p> + Then, holding the other as in a vise, the thoughts that had been writhing + in his mind for so long came hurtling forth. At last here was some one who + knew him. His old trainer. What better friend could he need? + </p> + <p> + He panted in his frenzy. The words came tripping over one another, + smothering, choking. And Crimmins with set face listened; listened as + Garrison went over past events; events since that memorable morning he had + awakened in the hospital with the world a blank and the past a blur. He + told all—all; like a little child babbling at his mother's knee. + </p> + <p> + “Why did I leave the track? Why? Why?” he finished in a whirlwind of + passion. “What happened? Tell me. Say I'm honest. Say it, Crimmins; say + it. Help me to get back. I can ride—ride like glory. I'll win for + you—anything. Anything to get me out of this hell of deceit, + nonentity namelessness. Help me to square myself. I'll make a name + nobody'll be ashamed of—” His words faded away. Passion left him + weak and quivering. + </p> + <p> + Crimmins judicially cleared his throat. There was a queer light in his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “It ain't Dan Crimmins' way to go back on a friend,” he began, laying a + hand on Garrison's shoulder. “You don't remember nothing, all on account + of that bingle you got on the head. But it was Crimmins that made you, + Bud. Sweated over you like a father. It was Crimmins who got you out of + many a tight place, when you wouldn't listen to his advice. I ain't saying + it wasn't right to skip out after you'd thrown every race and the Carter; + after poisoning Sis—” + </p> + <p> + “Then—I—was—not—honest?” asked Garrison. He was + horribly quiet. + </p> + <p> + “Emphatic'ly no,” said Crimmins sadly. He shook his head. “And you don't + remember how you came to Dan Crimmins the night you skipped out and you + says: 'Dan, Dan, my only friend, tried and true, I'm broke.' Just like + that you says it. And Dan says, without waitin' for you to ask; he says: + 'Billy, you and me have been pals for fifteen years; pals man and boy. A + friend is a friend, and a man who's broke don't want sympathy—he + needs money. Here's three thousand dollars—all I've got. I was going + to buy a home for the old mother, but friendship in need comes before all. + It's yours. Take it. Don't say a word. Crimmins has a heart, and it's Dan + Crimmins' way. He may suffer for it, but it's his way.' That's what he + says.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” whispered Garrison. His eyes were very wide and vacant. + </p> + <p> + Crimmins spat carefully, as if to stimulate his imagination. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, you don't remember,” he mused sadly. “Now you're tooting along + with the high rollers. But I ain't kickin'. It's Crimmins' way never to + give his hand in the dark, but when he does give it—for life, my + boy, for life. But I was thinkin' of the wife and kids you left up in Long + Island; left to face the music. Of course I stood their friend as best I + could—” + </p> + <p> + “Then—I'm married?” asked Garrison slowly. He laughed—a laugh + that caused the righteous Crimmins to wince. The latter carefully wiped + his eyes with a handkerchief that had once been white. + </p> + <p> + “Boy, boy!” he said, in great agony of mind. “To think you've gone and + forgot the sacred bond of matrimony! I thought at least you would have + remembered that. But I says to your wife, I says: 'Billy will come back. + He ain't the kind to leave you an' the kids go to the poorhouse, all for + the want of a little gumption. He'll come back and face the charges—” + </p> + <p> + “What charges?” Garrison did not recognize his own voice. + </p> + <p> + “Why, poisoning Sis. It's a jail offense,” exclaimed Crimmins. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed,” commented Garrison. + </p> + <p> + Again he laughed and again the righteous Crimmins winced. Garrison's gray + eyes had the glint of sun shining on ice. His mouth looked as it had many + a time when he fought neck-and-neck down the stretch, snatching victory by + sheer, condensed, bulldog grit. Crimmins knew of old what that mouth + portended, and he spoke hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + “Don't do anything rash, Bud. Bygones is bygones, and, as the Bible says: + 'Circumstances alters cases,' and—” + </p> + <p> + “Then this is how I stand,” cut in Garrison steadily, unheeding the + advice. He counted the dishonorable tally on his fingers. “I'm a + horse-poisoner, a thief, a welcher. I've deserted my wife and family. I + owe you—how much?” + </p> + <p> + “Five thousand,” said Crimmins deprecatingly, adding on the two just to + show he had no hard feelings. + </p> + <p> + “Good,” said Garrison. He bit his knuckles; bit until the blood came. + “Good,” he said again. He was silent. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't in a hurry,” put in Crimmins magnanimously. “But you can pay it + easy. The major—” + </p> + <p> + “Is a gentleman,” finished Garrison, eyes narrowed. “A gentleman whom I've + wronged—treated like—” He clenched his hands. Words were of no + avail. + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” argued the other persuasively. “What's the use of + gettin' flossy over it now? Ain't you known all along, when you put the + game up on him, that you wasn't his nephew; that you were doin' him dirt?” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up,” blazed Garrison savagely. “I know—what I've done. Fouled + those I'm not fit to grovel to. I thought I was honest—in a way. Now + I know I'm the scum I am—” + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean to say you're goin' to welch again?” asked the horrified + Crimmins. “Goin' to tell the major—” + </p> + <p> + “Just that, Crimmins. Tell them what I am. Tell Waterbury, and face that + charge for poisoning his horse. I may have been what you say, but I'm not + that now. I'm not,” he reiterated passionately, daring contradiction. + “I've sneaked long enough. Now I'm done with it—” + </p> + <p> + “See here,” inserted Crimmins, dangerously reasonable, “your little + white-washing game may be all right to you, but where does Dan Crimmins + come in and sit down? It ain't his way to be left standing. You splittin' + to the major and Waterbury? They'll mash your face off! And where's my + five thousand, eh? Where is it if you throw over the bank?” + </p> + <p> + “Damn your five thousand!” shrilled Garrison, passion throwing him. + “What's your debt to what I owe? What's money? You say you're my friend. + You say you have been. Yet you come here to blackmail me—yes, that's + the word I used, and the one I mean. Blackmail. You want me to continue + living a lie so that I may stop your mouth with money. You say I'm + married. But do you wish me to go back to my wife and children, to try to + square myself before God and them? Do you wish me to face Waterbury, and + take what's coming to me? No, you don't, you don't. You lie if you say you + do. It's yourself—yourself you're thinking of. I'm to be your + jackal. That's your friendship, but I say if that's friendship, Crimmins, + then to the devil with it, and may God send me hatred instead!” He choked + with the sheer smother of his passion. + </p> + <p> + Crimmins was breathing heavily. Then passion marked him for the thing he + was. Garrison saw confronting him not the unctuous, plausible friend, but + a hunted animal, with fear and venom showing in his narrowed eyes. And, + curiously enough, he noticed for the first time that the prison pallor was + strong on Crimmins' face, and that the hair above his outstanding ears was + clipped to the roots. + </p> + <p> + Then Crimmins spoke; through his teeth, and very slowly: “So you'll go to + Waterbury, eh?” And he nodded the words home. “You—little cur, you—you + little misbegotten bottle of bile! What are you and your hypocrisies to + me? You don't know me, you don't know me.” He laughed, and Garrison felt + repulsion fingering his heart. Then the former trainer shot out a clawing, + ravenous hand. “I want that money—want it quick!” he spat, taking a + step forward. “You want hatred, eh? Well, hatred you'll have, boy. Hatred + that I've always given you, you miserable, puling, lily-livered spawn of a—” + </p> + <p> + Garrison blotted out the insult to his mother's memory with his knuckles. + “And that's for your friendship,” he said, smashing home a right cross. + </p> + <p> + Crimmins arose very slowly from the white road, and even thought of + flicking some of the fine dust from his coat. He was smiling. The moon was + very bright. Crimmins glanced up and down the deserted pike. From the + distant town a bell chimed the hour of eight. He had twenty pounds the + better of the weights, but he was taking no chances. For Garrison, all his + wealth of hard-earned fistic education roused, was waiting; waiting with + the infinite patience of the wounded cougar. + </p> + <p> + Crimmins looked up and down the road again. Then he came in, a black-jack + clenched until the veins in his hand ridged out purple and taut as did + those in his neck. A muscle was beating in his wooden cheek. He struck + savagely. Garrison side-stepped, and his fist clacked under Crimmins' + chin. Neither spoke. Again Crimmins came in. + </p> + <p> + A great splatter of hoof-beats came from down the pike, sounding like the + vomitings of a Gatling gun. A horse streaked its way toward them. Crimmins + darted into the underbrush bordering the pike. The horse came fast. It + flashed past Garrison. Its rider was swaying in the saddle; swaying with + white, tense face and sawing hands. The eyes were fixed straight ahead, + vacant. A broken saddle-girth flapped raggedly. Garrison recognized the + fact that it was a runaway, with Sue Desha up. + </p> + <p> + Another horse followed, throwing space furiously. It was a big bay + gelding. As it drew abreast of Garrison, standing motionless in the white + road, it shied. Its rider rocketed over its head, thudded on the ground, + heaved once or twice, and then lay very still. The horse swept on. As it + passed, Garrison swung beside it, caught its pace for an instant, and then + eased himself into the saddle. Then he bent over and rode as only he could + ride. It was a runaway handicap. Sue's life was the stake, and the odds + were against him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. + </h2> + <h3> + SUE DECLARES HER LOVE. + </h3> + <p> + It was Waterbury who was lying unconscious on the lonely Logan Pike; + Waterbury who had been thrown as the bay gelding strove desperately to + overhaul the flying runaway filly. + </p> + <p> + Sue had gone for an evening ride. She wished to be alone. It had been + impossible to lose the ubiquitous Mr. Waterbury, but this evening The + Rogue had evinced premonitory symptoms of a distemper, and the greatly + exercised colonel had induced the turfman to ride over and have a look at + him. This left Sue absolutely unfettered, the first occasion in a week. + </p> + <p> + She was of the kind who fought out trouble silently, but not placidly. She + must have something to contend against; something on which to work out the + distemper of a heart and mind not in harmony. She must experience physical + exhaustion before resignation came. In learning a lesson she could not + remain inactive. She must walk, walk, up and down, up an down, until its + moral or text was beaten into her mentality with her echoing footsteps. + </p> + <p> + On this occasion she was in the humor to dare the impossible; dare through + sheer irritability of heart—not mind. And so she saddled Lethe—an + unregenerate pinto of the Southern Trail, whose concealed devilishness + forcibly reminded one of Balzac's famous description: “A clenched fist + hidden in an empty sleeve.” + </p> + <p> + She had been forbidden to ride the pinto ever since the day it was brought + home to her with irrefutable emphasis that the shortest distance between + two points is a straight line. It was more of a parabola she described, + when, bucked off, her head smashed the ground, but the simile serves. + </p> + <p> + But she would ride Lethe to-night. The other horses were too comfortable. + They served to irritate the bandit passions, not to subdue them. She + panted for some one, something, to break to her will. + </p> + <p> + Lethe felt that there was a passion that night riding her; a passion that + far surpassed her own. Womanlike, she decided to arbitrate. She would wait + until this all-powerful passion burned itself out; then she could afford + to safely agitate her own. It would not have grown less in the necessary + interim. So, much to Sue's surprise, the filly was as gentle as the + proverbial lamb. + </p> + <p> + As she turned for home, Waterbury rode out of the deepening shadows behind + her. He had left the colonel at his breeding-farm. Waterbury and Sue rode + in silence. The girl was giving all her attention to her thoughts. What + was left over was devoted to the insistent mouth of Lethe, who ever and + anon tested the grip on her bridle-rein; ascertaining whether or not there + were any symptoms of relaxation or abstraction. + </p> + <p> + It is human nature to grow tired of being good. Waterbury's better nature + had been in the ascendancy for over a week. He thought he could afford to + draw on this surplus balance to his credit. He was riding very close to + Sue. He had encroached, inch by inch, but her oblivion had not been + inclination, as Waterbury fancied. He edged nearer. As she did not heed + the steal, he took it for a grant. We fit facts to our inclination. The + animal arose mightily in him. In stooping to avoid an overhanging branch + he brushed against her. The contact set him aflame. He was hungrily eyeing + her profile. Then in a second, he had crushed her head to his shoulder, + and was fiercely kissing her again and again—lips, hair, eyes; eyes, + hair, lips. + </p> + <p> + “There!” he panted, releasing her. He laughed foolishly, biting his nails. + His mouth felt as if roofed with sand-paper. His face was white, but not + as white as hers. + </p> + <p> + She was silent. Then she drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and very + carefully wiped her lips. She was absolutely silent, but a pulse was + beating—beating in her slim throat. The action, her silence, + inflamed Waterbury. He made to crush her waist with his ravenous arm. + Then, for the first time, she turned slowly, and her narrowed eyes met + his. He saw, even in the gloom. Again he laughed, but the onrushing blood + purpled his neck. + </p> + <p> + Desperation came to help him brave those eyes—came and failed. He + talked, declaimed, avowed—grew brutally frank. Finally he spoke of + the mortgage he held, and waited, breathing heavily, for the answer. There + was none. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it's some one else, eh?” he rapped out, red showing in the + brown of his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Silence. He savagely cut the gelding across the ears, and then checked its + answering, maddened leap. The red deepened in Sue's cheek—two red + spots, the flag of courage. + </p> + <p> + “It's this nephew of Major Calvert's,” added Waterbury. He lost the last + shred of common decency he could lay claim to; it was caught up and + whirled away in the tempest of his passion. “I saw him to-day, on my way + to the track. He didn't see me. When I knew him his name was Garrison—Billy + Garrison. I discharged him for dishonesty. I suppose he sneaked home to a + confiding uncle when the world had kicked him out. I suppose they think + he's all right, same as you do. But he's a thief. A common, low-down—” + </p> + <p> + The girl turned swiftly, and her little gauntlet caught Waterbury full + across the mouth. + </p> + <p> + “You lie!” she whispered, very softly, her face white and quivering, her + eyes black with passion. + </p> + <p> + And then Lethe saw her opportunity. Sensed it in the momentary relaxing of + the bridle-rein. She whipped the bit into her fierce, even, white teeth, + and with a snort shot down the pike. + </p> + <p> + And then Waterbury's better self gained supremacy; contrition, self-hatred + rushing in like a fierce tidal wave and swamping the last vestige of + animalism. He spurred blindly after the fast-disappearing filly. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Garrison rode one of the best races of his life that night. It was a trial + of stamina and nerve. Lethe was primarily a sprinter, and the gelding, + raised to his greatest effort by the genius of his rider, outfought her, + outstayed her. As he flew down the moon-swept road, bright as at any + noontime, Garrison knew success would be his, providing Sue kept her seat, + her nerve, and the saddle from twisting. + </p> + <p> + Inch by inch the white, shadow-flecked space between the gelding and the + filly was eaten up. On, on, with only the tempest of their speed and the + flying hoofs for audience. On, on, until now the gelding had poked his + nose past the filly's flying hocks. + </p> + <p> + Garrison knew horses. He called on the gelding for a supreme effort, and + the gelding answered impressively. He hunched himself, shot past the + filly. Twenty yards' gain, twenty yards to the fore, and then Garrison + turned easily in the saddle. “All right, Miss Desha, let her come,” he + sang out cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + And the filly came, came hard; came with all the bitterness of being + outstripped by a clumsy gelding whom she had beaten time and again. As she + caught the latter's slowed pace, as her wicked nose drew alongside of the + other's withers, Garrison shot out a hand, clamped an iron clutch on the + spume-smeared bit, swung the gelding across the filly's right of way; + then, with his right hand, choked the fight from her widespread nostrils. + </p> + <p> + And then, womanlike, Sue fainted, and Garrison was just in time to ease + her through his arms to the ground. The two horses, thoroughly blown, + placidly settled down to nibble the grass by the wayside. + </p> + <p> + Sue lay there, her wealth of hair clouding Garrison's shoulder. He watched + consciousness return, the flutter of her breath. The perfume of her skin + was in his nostrils, his mouth; stealing away his honor. He held her + close. She shivered. + </p> + <p> + He fought to keep from kissing her as she lay there unarmed. Then her + throat pulsed; her eyes opened. Garrison kissed her again and again; + gripping her as a drowning man grips at a passing straw. + </p> + <p> + With a great heave and a passionate cry she flung him from her. She rose + unsteadily to her feet. He stood, shame engulfing him. Then she caught her + breath hard. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she said softly, “it's—it's you!” She laughed tremulously. “I—I + thought it was Mr. Waterbury.” + </p> + <p> + Relief, longing was in the voice. She made a pleading motion with her arms—a + child longing for its mother's neck. He did not see, heed. He was + nervously running his hand through his hair, face flaming. Silence. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Waterbury was thrown. I took his mount,” he blurted out, at length. + “Are you hurt?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head without replying; biting her lips. She was devouring + him with her eyes; eyes dark with passion. The memory of that moment in + his arms was seething within her. Why—why had she not known! They + looked at each other; eye to eye; soul to soul. Neither spoke. + </p> + <p> + She shivered, though the night was warm. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you call me Miss Desha?” she asked, at length. + </p> + <p> + “Because,” he said feebly—his nature was true to his Southern name. + He was fighting self like the girl—“I'm going away,” he added. It + had to come with a rush or not at all. And it must come. He heaved his + chest as a swimmer seeks to breast the waves. “I'm not worthy of you. I'm + a—a beast,” he said. “I lied to you; lied when I said I was not + Garrison. I am Billy Garrison. I did not know that I was. I know now. Know——” + </p> + <p> + “I knew you were,” said the girl simply. “Why did you try to hide it? + Shame?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” In sharp staccato sentences he told her of his lapse of memory. “It + was not because I was a thief; because I was kicked from the turf; because + I was a horse-poisoner—” + </p> + <p> + “Then—it's true?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “That I'm a—beast?” he asked grimly. “Yes, it's true. You doubt me, + don't you? You think I knew my identity, my crimes all along, and that I + was afraid. Say you doubt me.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you,” she said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he replied as quietly. + </p> + <p> + “And—you think it necessary, imperative that you go away?” There was + an unuttered sob in her voice, though she sought to choke it back. + </p> + <p> + “I do.” He laughed a little—the laugh that had caused the righteous + Dan Crimmins to wince. + </p> + <p> + She made a passionate gesture with her hand. “Billy,” she said, and + stopped, eyes flaming. + </p> + <p> + “You were right to break the engagement,” he said slowly, eyes on the + ground. “I suppose Mr. Waterbury told you who I was, and—and, of + course, you could only act as you did.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent, her face quivering. + </p> + <p> + “And you think that of me? You would think it of me? No, from the first I + knew you were Garrison—” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me,” he inserted. + </p> + <p> + “I broke the engagement,” she added, “because conditions were changed—with + me. My condition was no longer what it was when the engagement was made—” + She checked herself with an effort. + </p> + <p> + “I think I understand—now,” he said, and admiration was in his eyes; + “I know the track. I should.” He was speaking lifelessly, eyes on the + ground. “And I understand that you do not know—all.” + </p> + <p> + “All?” + </p> + <p> + “Um-m-m.” He looked up and faced her eyes, head held high. “I am an + adventurer,” he said slowly. “A scoundrel, an impostor. I am not—Major + Calvert's nephew.” And he watched her eyes; watched unflinchingly as they + changed and changed again. But he would not look away. + </p> + <p> + “I—I think I will sit down, if you don't mind,” she whispered, hand + at throat. She seated herself, as one in a maze, on a log by the wayside. + She looked up, a twisted little smile on her lips, as he stood above her. + “Won't—won't you sit down and tell—tell me all?” + </p> + <p> + He obeyed automatically, not striving to fathom the great charity of her + silence. And then he told all—all. Even as he had told that very + good trainer and righteous friend, Dan Crimmins. His voice was perfectly + lifeless. And the girl listened, lips clenched on teeth. + </p> + <p> + “And—and that's all,” he whispered. “God knows it's enough—too + much.” He drew himself away as some unclean thing. + </p> + <p> + “All that, all that, and you only a boy,” whispered the girl, half to + herself. “You must not tell the major. You must not,” she cried fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “I must,” he whispered. “I will.” + </p> + <p> + “You must not. You won't. You must go away, go away. Wipe the slate + clean,” she added tensely. “You must not tell the major. It must be broken + to him gently, by degrees. Boy, boy, don't you know what it is to love; to + have your heart twisted, broken, trampled? You must not tell him. It would + kill. I—know.” She crushed her hands in her lap. + </p> + <p> + “I'm a coward if I run,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “A murderer if you stay,” she answered. “And Mr. Waterbury—he will + flay you—keep you in the mire. I know. No, you must go, you must go. + Must have a chance for regeneration.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very kind—very kind. You do not say you loathe me.” He + arose abruptly, clenching his hands above his head in silent agony. + </p> + <p> + “No, I do not,” she whispered, leaning forward, hands gripping the log, + eyes burning up into his face. “I do not. Because I can't. I can't. + Because I love you, love you, love you. Boy, boy, can't you see? Won't you + see? I love you—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't,” he cried sharply, as if in physical agony. “You don't know what + you say—” + </p> + <p> + “I do, I do. I love you, love you,” she stormed. Passion, long stamped + down, had arisen in all its might. The surging intensity of her nature was + at white heat. It had broken all bonds, swept everything aside in its mad + rush. “Take me with you. Take me with you—anywhere,” she panted + passionately. She arose and caught him swiftly by the arm, forcing up her + flaming face to his. “I don't care what you are—I know what you will + be. I've loved you from the first. I lied when I ever said I hated you. + I'll help you to make a new start. Oh, so hard! Try me. Try me. Take me + with you. You are all I have. I can't give you up. I won't! Take me, take + me. Do, do, do!” Her head thrown back, she forced a hungry arm about his + neck and strove to drag his lips to hers. + </p> + <p> + He caught both wrists and eyed her. She was panting, but her eyes met his + unwaveringly, gloriously unashamed. He fought for every word. “Don't—tempt—me—Sue. + Good God, girl! you don't know how I love you. You can't. Loved you from + that night in the train. Now I know who you were, what you are to me—everything. + Help me to think of you, not of myself. You must guard yourself. I'm tired + of fighting—I can't——” + </p> + <p> + “It's the girl up North?” + </p> + <p> + He drew back. He had forgotten. He turned away, head bowed. Both were + fighting—fighting against love—everything. Then Sue drew a + great breath and commenced to shiver. + </p> + <p> + “I was wrong. You must go to her,” she whispered. “She has the right of + way. She has the right of way. Go, go,” she blazed, passion slipping up + again. “Go before I forget honor; forget everything but that I love.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison turned. She never forgot the look his face held; never forgot the + tone of his voice. + </p> + <p> + “I go. Good-by, Sue. I go to the girl up North. You are above me in every + way—infinitely above me. Yes, the girl up North. I had forgotten. + She is my wife. And I have children.” + </p> + <p> + He swung on his heel and blindly flung himself upon the waiting gelding. + </p> + <p> + Sue stood motionless. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. + </h2> + <h3> + GARRISON HIMSELF AGAIN. + </h3> + <p> + That night Garrison left for New York; left with the memory of Sue + standing there on the moonlit pike, that look in her eyes; that look of + dazed horror which he strove blindly to shut out. He did not return to + Calvert House; not because he remembered the girl's advice and was acting + upon it. His mind had no room for the past. Every blood-vessel was + striving to grapple with the present. He was numb with agony. It seemed as + if his brain had been beaten with sticks; beaten to a pulp. That last + scene with Sue had uprooted every fiber of his being. He writhed when he + thought of it. But one thought possessed him. To get away, get away, get + away; out of it all; anyhow, anywhere. + </p> + <p> + He was like a raw recruit who has been lying on the firing-line, suffering + the agonies of apprehension, of imagination; experiencing the proximity of + death in cold blood, without the heat of action to render him oblivious. + </p> + <p> + Garrison had been on the firing-line for so long that his nerve was frayed + to ribbons. Now the blow had fallen at last. The exposure had come, and a + fierce frenzy possessed him to complete the work begun. He craved physical + combat. And when he thought of Sue he felt like a murderer fleeing from + the scene of his crime; striving, with distance, to blot out the memory of + his victim. That was all he thought of. That, and to get away—to + flee from himself. Afterward, analysis of actions would come. At present, + only action; only action. + </p> + <p> + It was five miles to the Cottonton depot, reached by a road that branched + off from the Logan Pike about half a mile above the spot where Waterbury + had been thrown. He remembered that there was a through train at + ten-fifteen. He would have time if he rode hard. With head bowed, + shoulders hunched, he bent over the gelding. He had no recollection of + that ride. + </p> + <p> + But the long, weary journey North was one he had full recollection of. He + was forced to remain partially inactive, though he paced from smoking to + observation-car time and time again. He could not remain still. The first + great fury of the storm had passed. It had swept him up, weak and + nerveless, on the beach of retrospect; among the wreck of past hopes; the + flotsam and jetsam of what might have been. + </p> + <p> + He had time for self-analysis, for remorse, for the fierce probings of + conscience. One minute he regretted that he had run away without + confessing to the major; the next, remembering Sue's advice, he was glad. + He tried to shut out the girl's picture from his heart. Impossible. She + was the picture; all else was but frame. He knew that he had lost her + irrevocably. What must she think of him? How she must utterly despise him! + </p> + <p> + On the second day doubt came to Garrison, and with it a ray of hope. For + the first time the possibility suggested itself that Dan Crimmins, from + the deep well of his lively imagination, might have concocted Mrs. + Garrison and offspring. Crimmins had said he had always hated him. And he + had acted like a villain. He looked like one; like a felon, but newly + jail-freed. Might he not have invented the statement through sheer ill + will? Realizing that Garrison's memory was a blank, might he not have + sought to rivet the blackmailing fetters upon him by this new bolt? + </p> + <p> + Thus Garrison reasoned, and outlined two schemes. First, he would find his + wife if wife there were. He could not love her, for love must have a + beginning, and it feeds on the past. He had neither. But he would be loyal + to her; loyal as Crimmins said she had been loyal to him. Then he would + face whatever charges were against him, and seek restoration from the + jockey club, though it took his lifetime. And he would seek some way of + wiping out, or at least diminishing, the stain he had left behind him in + Virginia. + </p> + <p> + On the other hand, if Crimmins had lied—Garrison's jaw came out and + his eyes snapped. Then he would scrape himself morally clean, and fight + and fight for honorable recognition from the world. He would prove that a + “has-been” can come back. He would brand the negative as a lie. And then—Sue. + Perhaps—perhaps. + </p> + <p> + Those were the two roads. Which would he traverse? Whichever it was, + though his heart, his entire being, lay with the latter, he would follow + the pointing finger of honor; follow it to the end, no matter what it + might cost, or where it might lead. Love had restored to him the + appreciation of man's birthright; the birthright without which nothing is + won in this world or the next. He had gained self-respect. At present it + was but the thought. He would fight to make it reality; fight to keep it. + </p> + <p> + And that night as the train was leaping out of the darkness toward the + lights of the great city, racing toward its haven, rushing like a falling + comet, some one blundered. The world called it a disaster; the official + statement, an accident, an open switch; the press called it an outrage. + Pessimism called it fate—stern mother of the unsavory. Optimism + called it Providence. At all events, the train jammed shut like a closing + telescope. Undiluted Hades was very prevalent for over an hour. There were + groans, screams, prayers—all the jargon of those about to + precipitately return from whence they came. It was not a pleasant scene. + Ghouls were there. But mercy, charity, and great courage were also there. + And Garrison was there. + </p> + <p> + Fate, the unsavory, had been with him. He had been thrown clear at the + first crash; thrown through his sleeping-berth window. Physically he was + not very presentable. But he fought a good fight against the flames and + the general chaos. + </p> + <p> + One of the forward cars was a caldron of flame. A baby's cry swung out + from among the roar and smart of the living hell. There was a frantic + father and a demented mother. Both had to be thrown and pounded into + submission; held by sheer weight and muscle. + </p> + <p> + There were brave men there that night, but there was no sense in giving + two lives for one. Death was reaping more than enough. They would try to + save the “kid,” but it looked hopeless. Was it a girl? Yes, and an only + child? She must be pinned under a seat. The fire would be about opening up + on her. Sure—sure they would see what could be done. Anyway, the + roof was due to smash down. But they'd see. But there were lots of others + who needed a hand; others who were not pinned under seats with the flames + hungry for them. + </p> + <p> + But Garrison had swung on to a near-by horse-cart, jammed into rubber + boots, coats, and helmet, tying a wet towel over nose and mouth. And as + some stared, some cursed, and some cheered feebly, he smashed his way + through the smother of flame to the choking screams of the child. + </p> + <p> + The roof fell in. A great crash and a spouting fire of flame. An eternity, + and then he emerged like one of the three prophets from the fiery furnace. + Only he was not a Shadrach, Meshach, or Abednego. He was not fashioned + from providential asbestos. He was vulnerable. They carried him to a + near-by house. His head had been wonderfully smashed by the falling roof. + His eyebrows and hair were left behind in the smother of flame. He was + fire-licked from toe to heel. He was raving. But the child was safe. And + that wreck and that rescue went down in history. + </p> + <p> + For weeks Garrison was in the hospital. It was very like the rehearsal of + a past performance. He was completely out of his head. It was all very + like the months he put in at Bellevue in the long ago, before he had + experienced the hunger-cancer and compromised with honesty. + </p> + <p> + And again there came nights when doctors shook their heads and nurses + looked grave; nights when it was understood that before another dawn had + come creeping through the windows little Billy Garrison would have crossed + the Big Divide; nights when the shibboleths of a dead-and-gone life were + even fluttering on his lips; nights when names but not identities fought + with one another for existence; fought for birth, for supremacy, and “Sue” + always won; nights when he sat up in bed as he had sat up in Bellevue long + ago, and with tense hands and blazing eyes fought out victory on the + stretch. Horrible, horrible nights; surcharged with the frenzy and + unreality of a nightmare. + </p> + <p> + And one of his audience who seldom left the narrow cot was a man who had + come to look for a friend among the wreck victims; come and found him not. + He had chanced to pass Garrison's cot. And he had remained. + </p> + <p> + Came a night at last when stamina and hope and grit won the long, long + fight. The crisis was turned. The demons, defeated, who had been fighting + among themselves for the possession of Garrison's mind, reluctantly gave + it back to him. And, moreover, they gave it back—intact. The part + they had stolen that night in the Hoffman House was replaced. + </p> + <p> + This restoration the doctors subsequently called by a very learned and + mysterious name. They gave an esoteric explanation redounding greatly to + the credit of the general medical and surgical world. It was something to + the effect that the initial blow Garrison had received had forced a piece + of bone against the brain in such a manner as to defy mere man's surgery. + This had caused the lapse of memory. + </p> + <p> + Then had come the second blow that night of the wreck. Where man had + failed, nature had stepped in and operated successfully. Her methods had + been crude, but effective. The unscientific blow on the head had restored + the dislodged bone to its proper place. The medical world was highly + pleased over this manifestation of nature's surgical skill, and appeared + to think that she had operated under its direction. And nature never + denied it. + </p> + <p> + As Garrison opened his eyes, dazed, weak as water, memory, full, complete, + rushed into action. His brain recalled everything—everything from + the period it is given man to remember down to the present. It was all so + clear, so perfect, so workmanlike. The long-halted clock of memory was + ticking away merrily, perfectly, and not one hour was missing from its + dial. The thread of his severed life was joined—joined in such a + manner that no hitch or knot was apparent. + </p> + <p> + To use a third simile, the former blank, utterly fearsome space, was + filled—filled with clear writing, without blotch or blemish. And on + the space was not recorded one deed he had dreaded to see. There were + mistakes, weaknesses—but not dishonor. For a moment he could not + grasp the full meaning of the blessing. He could only sense that he had + indeed been blessed above his deserts. + </p> + <p> + And then as Garrison understood what it all meant to him; understood the + chief fact that he had not deserted wife and children; that Sue might be + won, he crushed his face to the pillow and cried—cried like a little + child. + </p> + <p> + And a big man, sitting in the shelter of a screen, hitched his chair + nearer the cot, and laid both hands on Garrison's. He did not speak, but + there was a wonderful light in his eyes—steady, clear gray eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Kid,” he said. “Kid.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison turned swiftly. His hand gripped the other's. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmie Drake,” he whispered. For the first time the blood came to his + face. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. + </h2> + <h3> + PROVEN CLEAN. + </h3> + <p> + Two months had gone in; two months of slow recuperation, regeneration for + Garrison. He was just beginning to look at life from the standpoint of + unremitting toil and endeavor. It is the only satisfactory standpoint. + From it we see life in its true proportions. Neither distorted through the + blue glasses of pessimism—but another name for the failure of + misapplication—nor through the wonderful rose-colored glasses of the + dreamer. He was patiently going back over his past life; returning to the + point where he had deserted the clearly defined path of honor and duty for + the flowery fields of unbridled license. + </p> + <p> + It was no easy task he had set himself, but he did not falter by the + wayside. Three great stimulants he had—health, the thought of Sue + Desha, and the practical assistance of Jimmie Drake. + </p> + <p> + It was a month, dating from the memorable meeting with the turfman, before + Garrison was able to leave the hospital. When he did, it was to take up + his life at Drake's Long Island breeding-farm and racing-stable; for in + the interim Drake had passed from book-making stage to that of owner. He + ran a first-class string of mounts, and he signed Garrison to ride for him + during the ensuing season. + </p> + <p> + It was the first chance for regeneration, and it had been timidly asked + and gladly granted; asked and granted during one of the long nights in the + hospital when Garrison was struggling for strength and faith. It had been + the first time he had been permitted to talk for any great length. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he said, on the granting of his request, which he more than + thought would be refused. His eyes voiced where his lips were dumb. “I + haven't gone back, Jimmie, but it's good of you to give me a chance on my + say-so. I'll bear it in mind. And—and it's good of you, Jimmie, to—to + come and sit with me. I—I appreciate it all, and I don't see why you + should do it.” + </p> + <p> + Drake laughed awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + “It's the least I could do, kid. The favor ain't on my side, it's on + yours. Anyway, what use is a friend if he ain't there when you need him? + It was luck I found you here. I thought you had disappeared for keeps. + Remember that day you cut me on Broadway? I ought to have followed you, + but I was sore—” + </p> + <p> + “But I—I didn't mean to cut you, Jimmie. I didn't know you. I want + to tell you all about that—about everything. I'm just beginning to + know now that I'm living. I've been buried alive. Honest!” + </p> + <p> + “I always thought there was something back of your absent treatment. What + was it?” Drake hitched his chair nearer and focused all his powers of + concentration. “What was it, kid? Out with it. And if I can be of any help + you know you have only to put it there.” He held out a large hand. + </p> + <p> + And then slowly, haltingly, but lucidly, dispassionately, events following + in sequence, Garrison told everything; concealing nothing. Nor did he try + to gloss over or strive to nullify his own dishonorable actions. He told + everything, and the turfman, chin in hand, eyes riveted on the narrator, + listened absorbed. + </p> + <p> + “Gee!” Jimmie Drake whispered at last, “it sounds like a fairy-story. It + don't sound real.” Then he suddenly crashed a fist into his open palm. “I + see, I see,” he snapped, striving to control his excitement. “Then you + don't know. You can't know.” + </p> + <p> + “Know what?” Garrison sat bolt upright in his narrow cot, his heart + pounding. + </p> + <p> + “Why—why about Crimmins, about Waterbury, about Sis—everything,” + exclaimed Drake. “It was all in the Eastern papers. You were in Bellevue + then. I thought you knew. Don't you know, kid, that it was proven that + Crimmins poisoned Sis? Hold on, keep quiet. Yes, it was Crimmins. Now, + don't get excited. Yes, I'll tell you all. Give me time. Why, kid, you + were as clean as the wind that dried your first shirt. Sure, sure. We all + knew it—then. And we thought you did—” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, tell me.” Garrison's lip was quivering; his face gray with + excitement. + </p> + <p> + Drake ran on forcefully, succinctly, his hand gripping Garrison's. + </p> + <p> + “Well, we'll take it up from that day of the Carter Handicap. Remember? + When you and Waterbury had it out? Now, I had suspected that Dan Crimmins + had been plunging against his stable for some time. I had got on to some + bets he had put through with the aid of his dirty commissioners. That's + why I stood up for you against Waterbury. I knew he was square. I knew he + didn't throw the race, and, as for you—well, I said to myself: 'That + ain't like the kid.' I knew the evidence against you, but it was hard to + believe, kid. And I believed you when you said you hadn't made a cent on + the race, but instead had lost all you had, I believed that. But I knew + Crimmins had made a pile. I found that out. And I believed he drugged you, + kid. + </p> + <p> + “Now, when you tell me you were fighting consumption it clears a lot of + space for me that has been dark. I knew you were doped half the time, but + I thought you were going the pace with the pipe, though I'll admit I + couldn't fathom what drug you were taking. But now I know Crimmins fed you + dope while pretending to hand you nerve food. I know it. I know he bet + against his stable time and ag'in and won every race you were accused of + throwing. I tracked things pretty clear that day after I left you. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I went to Waterbury and laid the charge against the trainer; giving + him a chance to square himself before I made trouble higher up. Well, + Waterbury was mad. Said he had no hand in it, and I believed him. The + upshot of it was that he faced Crimmins. Now, Crimmins had been blowing + himself on the pile he had made, and he was nasty. Instead of denying it + and putting the proving of the game up to me, he took the bit in his mouth + at something Waterbury said. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know all the facts. They came out in the paper afterward. But + Crimmins and Waterbury had a scrap, and the trainer was fired. He was + fired when you went to the stable to say good-by to Sis. He was packing + what things he had there, but when he saw you weren't on, he kept it mum. + I believe then he was planning to do away with Sis, and you offered a nice + easy get-away for him. He hated you. First, because you turned down the + crooked deal he offered you, for it was he who was beating the bookies, + and he wanted a pal. Secondly, he thought you had split about the dope, + and he laid his discharge to you. And he hated Waterbury. He could square + you both at one shot. He poisoned Sis when you'd gone. + </p> + <p> + “Every one believed you guilty, for they didn't know the row Crimmins and + Waterbury had. But Waterbury suspected. He and Crimmins had it out. He + caught him on Broadway, a day or two later, and Crimmins walloped him over + the head with a blackjack. Waterbury went to the hospital, and came next + to dying. Crimmins went to jail. I guess he was down and out, all right, + when, as you say, he heard from his brother that Waterbury was at + Cottonton. I believe he went there to square him, but ran across you + instead, and thought he could have a good blackmailing game on the side. + That wife game was a plot to catch you, kid. He didn't think you'd dare to + come North. When you told him about your lapse of memory, then he knew he + was safe. You knew nothing of his showdown.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison covered his face with his hands. Only he knew the great, the + mighty obsession that was slowly withdrawing itself from his heart. It was + all so wonderful; all so incredible. Long contact with misfortune had + sapped the natural resiliency of his character. It had been subjected to + so much pressure that it had become flaccid. The pressure removed, it + would be some time before the heart could act upon the message of good + tidings the brain had conveyed to it. For a long time he remained silent. + And Drake respected his silence to the letter. Then Garrison uncovered his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I can't believe it. I can't believe it,” he whispered, wide-eyed. “It is + too good to be true. It means too much. You're sure you're right, Jimmie? + It means I'm proven clean, proven square. It means reinstatement on the + turf. Means—everything.” + </p> + <p> + “All that, kid,” said Drake. “I thought you knew.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison hugged his knees in a paroxysm of silent joy. + </p> + <p> + “But—Waterbury?” he puzzled at length. “He knew I had been + exonerated. And yet—yet he must have said something to the contrary + to Miss Desha. She knew all along that I was Garrison; knew when I didn't + know myself. But she thought me square. But Waterbury must have said + something. I can never forget her saying when I confessed: 'It's true, + then.' I can never forget that, and the look in her eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye, Waterbury,” mused Drake soberly. He eyed Garrison. “You know he's + dead,” he said simply. He nodded confirmation as the other stared, + white-faced. “Died this morning after he was thrown. Fractured skull. I + had word. Some right-meaning chap says somewhere something about saying + nothing but good of the dead, kid. If Waterbury tried to queer you, it was + through jealousy. I understand he cared something for Miss Desha. He had + his good points, like every man. Think of them, kid, not the bad ones. I + guess the bookkeeper up above will credit us with all the times we've + tried to do the square, even if we petered out before we'd made good. + Trying counts something, kid. Don't forget that.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he had his good points,” whispered Garrison. “I don't forget, + Jimmie. I don't forget that he has a cleaner bill of moral health than I + have. I was an impostor. That I can't forget; cannot wipe out.” + </p> + <p> + “I was coming to that,” Drake scratched his grizzled head elaborately. “I + didn't say anything when you were unwinding that yarn, kid, but it sounded + mighty tangled to me.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “How? Why, we ain't living in fairy-books to-day. It's straight hard life. + And there ain't any fools, as far as I can see, who are allowed to take up + air and space. I've heard of Major Calvert, and his brains were all there + the last time I heard of him—” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” Garrison bored his eyes into Drake's. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I mean, kid, that blood is thicker than water, and leave it to a + woman to see through a stone wall. I don't believe you could palm yourself + off to the major and his wife as their nephew. It's not reasonable nohow. + I don't believe any one could fool any family.” + </p> + <p> + “But I did!” Garrison was staring blankly. “I did, Jimmie! Remember I had + the cooked-up proofs. Remember that they had never seen the real nephew—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, shucks! What's the odds? Blood's blood. You don't mean to say a man + wouldn't know his own sister's child? Living in the house with him? + Wouldn't there be some likeness, some family trait, some characteristic? + Are folks any different from horses? No, no, it might happen in stories, + but not life, not life.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison shook his head wearily. “I can't follow you, Jimmie. You like to + argue for the sake of arguing. I don't understand. They did believe me. + Isn't that enough? Why—why——” His face blanched at the + thought. “You don't mean to say that they knew I was an imposter? Knew all + along? You—can't mean that, Jimmie?” + </p> + <p> + “I may,” said Drake shortly. “But, see here, kid, you'll admit it would be + impossible for two people to have that birthmark on them; the identical + mark in the identical spot. You'll admit that. Now, wouldn't it be + impossible?” + </p> + <p> + “Improbable, but not impossible.” Suddenly Garrison had commenced to + breathe heavily, his hands clenching. + </p> + <p> + Drake cocked his head on one side and closed an eye. He eyed Garrison + steadily. “Kid, it seems to me that you've only been fooling yourself. I + believe you're Major Calvert's nephew. That's straight.” + </p> + <p> + For a long time Garrison stared at him unwinkingly. Then he laughed + wildly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you're good, Jimmie. No, no. Don't tempt me. You forget; forget two + great things. I know my mother's name was Loring, not Calvert. And my + father's name was Garrison, not Dagget.” + </p> + <p> + “Um-m-m,” mused Drake, knitting brows. “You don't say? But, see here, kid, + didn't you say that this Dagget's mother was only Major Calvert's + half-sister? How about that, eh? Then her name would be different from + his. How about that? How do you know Loring mightn't fit it? Answer me + that.” + </p> + <p> + “I never thought of that,” whispered Garrison. “If you only are right, + Jimmie! If you only are, what it would mean? But my father, my father,” he + cried weakly. “My father. There's no getting around that, Jimmie. His name + was Garrison. My name is Garrison. There's no dodging that. You can't + change that into Dagget.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” argued Drake, slowly, pertinaciously. “This here is my + idea, and I ain't willing to give it up without a fight. How do you know + but your father might have changed his name? I've known less likelier + things to happen. You know he was good blood gone wrong. How do you know + he mightn't have changed it so as not disgrace his family, eh? Changed it + after he married your mother, and she stood for it so as not to disgrace + her family. You were a kid when she died, and you weren't present, you + say. How do you know but she mightn't have wanted to tell you a whole lot, + eh? A whole lot your father wouldn't tell you because he never cared for + you. No, the more I think of it the more I'm certain that you're Major + Calvert's nephew. You're the only logical answer. That mark of the spur + and the other incidents is good enough for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't tempt me, Jimmie, don't tempt me,” pleaded Garrison again. “You + don't know what it all means. I may be his nephew. I may be—God + grant I am! But I must be honest. I must be honest.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm going to hunt up that lawyer, Snark,” affirmed Drake finally. + “I won't rest until I see this thing through. Snark may have known all + along you were the rightful heir, and merely put up a job to get a pile + out of you when you came into the estate. Or he may have been honest in + his dishonesty; may not have known. But I'm going to rustle round after + him. Maybe there's proofs he holds. What about Major Calvert? Are you + going to write him?” + </p> + <p> + Garrison considered. “No—no,” he said at length. “No, if—if by + any chance I am his nephew—you see how I want to believe you, + Jimmie, God knows how much—then I'll tell him afterward. Afterward + when—I'm clean. I want to lie low; to square myself in my own sight + and man's. I want to make another name for myself, Jimmie. I want to start + all over and shame no man. If by any chance I am William C. Dagget, then—then + I want to be worthy of that name. And I owe everything to Garrison. I'm + going to clean that name. It meant something once—and it'll mean + something again.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you, kid.” + </p> + <p> + Subsequently, Drake fulfilled his word concerning the “rustling round” + after that eminent lawyer, Theobald D. Snark. His efforts met with + failure. Probably the eminent lawyer's business had increased so + enormously that he had been compelled to vacate the niche he held in the + Nassau Street bookcase. But Drake had not given up the fight. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Garrison had commenced his life of regeneration at the turfman's + Long Island stable. He was to ride Speedaway in the coming Carter + Handicap. The event that had seen him go down, down to oblivion one year + ago might herald the reascendency of his star. He had vowed it would. And + so in grim silence he prepared for his farewell appearance in that great + seriocomic tragedy of life called “Making Good.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. + </h2> + <h3> + GARRISON FINDS HIMSELF. + </h3> + <p> + Sue never rightly remembered how the two months passed; the two months + succeeding that hideous night when in paralyzed silence she watched + Garrison away. The greatest sorrow is stagnant, not active. The heart + becomes like a frozen morass. Sometimes memory slips through the crust, + only to sink in the grim “slough of despond.” + </p> + <p> + Waterbury's death had unnerved her, coming as it did at a time when + tragedy had opened the pores of her heart. He had been conscious for a few + minutes before the messenger of a new life summoned him into the great + beyond. He used the few minutes well. If we all lived with the thought + that the next hour would be our last, the world would be peopled with + angels—and hypocrites. + </p> + <p> + Waterbury asked permission of his host, Colonel Desha, to see Sue alone. + It was willingly granted. The girl, white-faced, came and sat by the bed + in the room of many shadows; the room where death was tapping, tapping on + the door. She had said nothing to her father regarding the events + preceding the runaway and Waterbury's accident. + </p> + <p> + Waterbury eyed her long and gravely. The heat of his great passion had + melted the baser metal of his nature. What original alloy of gold he + possessed had but emerged refined. His fingers, formerly pudgy, well-fed, + had suddenly become skeletons of themselves. They were picking at the + coverlet. + </p> + <p> + “I lied about—about Garrison,” he whispered, forcing life to his + mouth, his eyes never leaving the girl's. “I lied. He was square—” + Breath would not come. “For-forgive,” he cried, suddenly in a smother of + sweat. “Forgive—” + </p> + <p> + “Gladly, willingly,” whispered the girl. She was crying inwardly. + </p> + <p> + His eyes flamed for an instant, and then died away. By sheer will-power he + succeeded in stretching a hand across the coverlet, palm upward. “Put—put + it—there,” he whispered. “Will you?” + </p> + <p> + She understood. It was the sporting world's token of forgiveness; of + friendship. She laid her hand in his, gripping with a firm clasp. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he whispered. Again his eyes flamed; again died away. The end + was very near. Perhaps the approaching freedom of the spirit lent him + power to read the girl's thoughts. For as he looked into her eyes, his own + saw that she knew what lay in his. He breathed heavily, painfully. + </p> + <p> + “Could—could you?” he whispered. “If—if you only could.” There + was a great longing, a mighty wistfulness in his voice. Death was trying + to place its hand over his mouth. With a mighty effort Waterbury slipped + past it. “If you only could,” he reiterated. “It—it means so little + to you, Miss Desha—so much, so much to—me!” + </p> + <p> + And again the girl understood. Without a word she bent over and kissed + him. He smiled. And so died Waterbury. + </p> + <p> + Afterward, the girl remembered Waterbury's confession. So Garrison was + honest! Somehow, she had always believed he was. His eyes, the windows of + his soul, were not fouled. She had read weakness there, but never + dishonesty. Yes, somehow she had always believed him honest. But he was + married. That was different. The concrete, not the abstract, was + paramount. All else was swamped by the fact that he was married. She could + not believe that he had forgotten his marriage with his true identity. She + could not believe that. Her heart was against her. Love to her was + everything. She could not understand how one could ever forget. One might + forget the world, but not that, not that. + </p> + <p> + True to her code of judging not, she did not attempt to estimate Garrison. + She could not bear to use the probe. There are some things too sacred to + be dissected; so near the heart that their proximity renders an experiment + prohibitive. She believed that Garrison loved her. She believed that above + all. Surely he had given something in exchange for all that he owned of + her. If in unguarded moments her conscience assumed the woolsack, mercy, + not justice, swayed it. + </p> + <p> + She realized the mighty temptation Garrison had been forced against by + circumstances. And if he had fallen, might not she herself? Had it not + taken all her courage to renounce—to give the girl up North the + right of way? Now she understood the prayer, “Lead us not into + temptation.” + </p> + <p> + Yes, it had been weakness with Garrison, not dishonor. He had been + fighting against it all the time. She remembered that morning in the + tennis-court—her first intimacy with him. And he had spoken of the + girl up North. She remembered him saying: “But doesn't the Bible say to + leave all and cleave unto your wife?” + </p> + <p> + That had been a confession, though she knew it not. And she had ignored + it, taking it as badinage, and he had been too weak to brand it truth. + Strangely enough, she did not judge him for posing as Major Calvert's + nephew. Strangely enough, that seemed trivial in comparison with the + other. It was so natural for him to be the rightful heir that she could + not realize that he was an impostor, nor apportion the fact its true + significance. Her brain was unfit to grapple. Only her heart lived; lived + with the passive life of stagnation. It was choked with weeds on the + surface. She tried to patch together the broken parts of her life. Tried + and failed. She could not. She seemed to be existing without an excuse; + aimlessly, soullessly. + </p> + <p> + After many horrible days, hideous nights, she realized that she still + loved Garrison. Loved with a love that threatened to absorb even her + physical existence. It seemed as if the very breath of her lungs had been + diverted to her heart, where it became tissue-searing flame. + </p> + <p> + And at Calvert House life had resolved itself into silence. The major and + his wife were striving to live in the future; striving to live against + Garrison's return. They were ignorant of the true cause of his leaving. + For Sue, the keeper of the secret, had not divulged it. She had been left + with a difficult proposition to face, and she could not face it. She + temporized. She knew that sooner or later the truth would have to come + out. She put it off. She could not tell, not now, not now. Each day only + rendered it the more difficult. She could not tell. + </p> + <p> + She had only to look at the old major; to look at his wife, to see that + the blow would blast them. She had had youth to help her, and even she had + been blasted. What chance had they? And so she said that Garrison and she + had quarreled seriously and that in sudden anger, pique, he had left. Oh, + yes, she knew he would return. She was quite sure of it. It was all so + silly and over nothing, and she had no idea he would take it that way. And + she was so sorry, so sorry. + </p> + <p> + It had all been her fault. He had not been to blame. It was she, only she. + In a thoughtless moment she had said something about his being dependent + on his uncle, and he had fired up, affirming that he would show her that + he was a man, and could earn his own salt. Yes, it had been entirely her + own fault, and no one hated herself as she did. He had gone to prove his + manhood, and she knew how stubborn he was. He would not return until he + wished. + </p> + <p> + Sue lied bravely, convincingly, whole-heartedly. Everything she did was + done thoroughly. She would not think of the future. But she could not tell + that Garrison was an impostor; a father of children. She could not tell. + So she lied, and lied so well that the old major, bewildered, was forced + to believe her. He was forced to acquiesce. He could not interfere. He + could do nothing. It was better that his nephew should prove his manhood; + return some time and love the girl, than that he should hate her for + eternity. + </p> + <p> + Each day he hoped to see Garrison back, but each day passed without that + consummation. The strain was beginning to tell on him. His heart was bound + up in the boy. If he did not return soon he would advertise, institute a + search. He well knew the folly of youth. He was broad-minded, + great-hearted enough not to censure the girl by word or act. He saw how + she was suffering; growing paler daily. But why didn't Garrison write? All + the anger, all the quarrels in the world could not account for his leaving + like that; account for his silence. + </p> + <p> + The major commenced to doubt. And his wife's words: “It's not like Sue to + permit William to go like that. Nor like her to ever have said such a + thing even unthinkingly. There's more than that on the girl's mind. She is + wasting away”—but served to strengthen the doubt. Still, he was + impotent. He could not understand. If his nephew did not wish to return, + all the advertising in creation could not drag him back. + </p> + <p> + Yes, his wife was right. There was more on the girl's mind than that. And + it was not like Sue to act as she affirmed she had. Still, he could not + bring himself to doubt her. He was in a quandary. It had begun to tell on + him, on his wife; even as it had already told on the girl. + </p> + <p> + And old Colonel Desha was likewise breasting a sea of trouble. Waterbury's + death had brought financial matters to a focus. Honor imperatively + demanded that the mortgage be settled with the dead man's heirs. It was + only due to Sue's desperate financiering that the interest had been met up + to the present. That it would be paid next month depended solely on the + chance of The Rogue winning the Carter Handicap. Things had come to as bad + a pass as that. + </p> + <p> + The colonel frantically bent every effort toward getting the thoroughbred + into condition. How he hated himself now for posting his all on the winter + books! Now that the great trial was so near, his deep convictions of + triumph did not look so wonderful. + </p> + <p> + There were good horses entered against The Rogue. Major Calvert's Dixie, + for instance, and Speedaway, the wonderful goer owned by that man Drake. + Then there were half a dozen others—all from well-known stables. + There could be no doubt that “class” would be present in abundance at the + Carter. And only he had so much at stake. He had entered The Rogue in the + first flush consequent on his winning the last Carter. But he must win + this. He must. Getting him into condition entailed expense. It must be + met. All his hopes, his fears, were staked on The Rogue. Money never was + so paramount; the need of it so great. Fiercely he hugged his poverty to + his breast, keeping it from his friend the major. + </p> + <p> + Then, too, he was greatly worried over Sue. She was not looking well. He + was worried over Garrison's continued absence. He was worried over + everything. It was besetting him from all sides. Worry was causing him to + take the lime-light from himself. He awoke to the fact that Sue was in + very poor health. If she died—He never could finish. + </p> + <p> + Taken all in all, it was a very bad time for the two oldest families in + Cottonton. Every member was suffering silently, stoically; each in a + different way. One striving to conceal from the other. And it all centered + about Garrison. + </p> + <p> + And then, one day when things were at their worst, when Garrison, + unconscious of the general misery he had engendered, had completed + Speedaway's training for the Carter, when he himself was ready for the + fight of his life, a stranger stepped off the Cottonton express and made + his way to the Desha homestead. He knew the colonel. He was a big, quiet + man—Jimmie Drake. + </p> + <p> + A week later and Drake had returned North. He had not said anything to + Garrison regarding what had called him away, but the latter vaguely sensed + that it was another attempt on the indefatigable turfman's part to ferret + out the eminent lawyer, Mr. Snark. And when Drake, on his return, called + Garrison into the club-house, Garrison went white-faced. He had just sent + Speedaway over the seven furlongs in record time, and his heart was big + with hope. + </p> + <p> + Drake never wasted ammunition in preliminary skirmishing. He told the joke + first and the story afterward. + </p> + <p> + “I've been South. Seen Colonel Desha and Major Calvert,” he said tersely. + </p> + <p> + Garrison was silent, looking at him. He tried to read fate in his + inscrutable eyes; news of some description; tried, and failed. He turned + away his head. “Tell me,” he said simply. Drake eyed him and slowly came + forward and held out his large bloodshot hand. + </p> + <p> + “Billy Garrison—'Bud'—'Kid'—William C. Dagget,” he said, + nodding his head. + </p> + <p> + Garrison rose with difficulty, the sweat on his face. + </p> + <p> + “William C. Dagget? Me? Me? Me?” he whispered, his head thrown forward, + his eyes narrowed, starting at Drake. “Just God, Jimmie! Don't play with + me——” He sat down abruptly covering his quivering face with + his hands. + </p> + <p> + Drake laid a hand on the heaving shoulders. “There, there, kid,” he + murmured gruffly, as if to a child, “don't go and blow up over it. Yes, + you're Dagget. The luckiest kid in the States, and—and the + damnedest. You've raised a muss-pile down South in Cottonton. Dagget or no + Dagget, I'm talking straight. You've been selfish, kid. You've only been + thinking of yourself; your regeneration; your past, your present, your + future. You—you—you. You never thought of the folks you left + down home; left to suffocate with the stink you raised. You cleared out + scot-free, and, say, kid, you let a girl lie for you; lie for you. You did + that. A girl, by heck! who wouldn't lie for the Almighty Himself. A girl + who—who——” Drake searched frantically for a fitting + simile, gasped, mopped his face with a lurid silk handkerchief, and + flumped into a chair. “Well, say, kid, it's just plain hell. That's what + it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Lied for me?” said Garrison very quietly. + </p> + <p> + “That's the word. But I'll start from the time the fur commenced to fly. + In the first place, there's no doubt about your identity. I was right. + I've proved that. I couldn't find Snark—I guess the devil must have + called him back home. So I took things on my own hook and went to + Cottonton, where I moseyed round considerable. I know Colonel Desha, and I + learned a good deal in a quiet way when I was there. I learned from Major + Calvert that his half-sister's—your mother's—name was Loring. + That cinched it for me. But I said nothing. They were in an awful stew + over your absence, but I never let on, at first, that I had you bunked. + </p> + <p> + “I learned, among other things, that Miss Desha had taken upon herself the + blame of your leaving; saying that she had said something you had taken + exception to; that you had gone to prove your manhood, kid. Your manhood, + kid—mind that. She's a thoroughbred, that girl. Now, I would have + backed her lie to the finish if something hadn't gone and happened.” Drake + paused significantly. “That something was that the major received a letter—from + your father, kid.” + </p> + <p> + “My father?” whispered Garrison. + </p> + <p> + “Um-m-m, the very party. Written from 'Frisco—on his death-bed. One + of those old-timey, stage-climax death-bed confessions. As old as the + mortgage on the farm business. As I remarked before some right-meaning + chap says somewhere something about saying nothing but good of the dead. + I'm not slinging mud. I guess there was a whole lot missing in your + father, kid, but he tried to square himself at the finish, the same as we + all do, I guess. + </p> + <p> + “He wrote to the major, saying he had never told his son—you, kid—of + his real name nor of his mother's family. He confessed to changing his + name from Dagget to Garrison for the very reasons I said. Remember? He + ended by saying he had wronged you; that he knew you would be the major's + heir, and that if you were to be found it would be under the name of + Garrison. That is, if you were still living. He didn't know anything about + you. + </p> + <p> + “There was a whole lot of repentance and general misery in the letter. I + don't like to think of it overmuch. But it knocked Cottonton flatter than + stale beer. Honest. I never saw such a time. I'm no good at telling a + yarn, kid. It was something fierce. There was nothing but knots and knots; + all diked up and tangles by the mile. And so I had to step in and + straighten things out. And—and so, kid, I told the major everything; + every scrap of your history, as far as I knew it. All you had told to me. + I had to. Now, don't tell me I kicked in. Say I did right, kid. I meant + to.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” murmured Garrison blankly. “And—and the major? What—did + he say, Jimmie?” + </p> + <p> + Drake frowned thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Say? Well, kid, I only wish I had an uncle like that. I only wish there + were more folks like those Cottonton folks. I do. Say? Why, Lord, kid, it + was one grand hallelujah! Forgive? Say,” he finished, thoughtfully eyeing + the white-faced, newly christened Garrison, “what have you ever done to be + loved like that? They were crazy for you. Not a word was said about your + imposition. Not a word. It was all: 'When will he be back?' 'Where is he?' + 'Telegraph!' All one great slambang of joy. And me? Well, I could have had + that town for my own. And your aunt? She cried, cried when she heard all + you had been through. Oh, I made a great press-agent, kid. And the old + major—Oh, fuss! I can't tell a yarn nohow,” grumbled Drake, stamping + about at great length and vigorously using the lurid silk handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + William C. Dagget was silent—the silence of great, overwhelming joy. + He was shivering. “And—and Miss Desha?” he whispered at length. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—Miss Desha,” echoed Drake, planting wide his feet and + contemplating the other's bent head. “Yes, Miss Desha. And why in blazes + did you tell her you were married, eh?” he asked grimly. “Oh, you thought + you were? Oh, yes. And you didn't deny it when you found it wasn't so? Oh, + yes, of course. And it didn't matter whether she ate her heart out or not? + Of course not. Oh, yes, you wanted to be clean, first, and all that. And + she might die in the meantime. You didn't think she still cared for you? + Now, see here, kid, that's a lie and you know it. It's a lie. When a girl + like Miss Desha goes so far as to—Oh, fuss! I can't tell a yarn. + But, see here, kid, I haven't your blood. I own that. But if I ever put + myself before a girl who cared for me the way Miss Desha cares for you, + and I professed to love her as you professed to love Miss Desha, than may + I rot—rot, hide, hair, and bones! Now, cuss me out, if you like.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison looked up grimly. + </p> + <p> + “You're right, Jimmie. I should have stood my ground and taken my dose. I + should have written her when I discovered the truth. But—I couldn't. + I couldn't. Listen, Jimmie, it was not selfishness, not cowardice. Can't + you see? Can't you see? I cared too much. I was so unworthy, so miserable. + How could I ever think she would stoop to my level? She was so high; I so + horribly low. It was my own unworthiness choking me. It was not + selfishness, Jimmie, not selfishness. It was despair; despair and misery. + Don't you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, fuss!” said Drake again, using the lurid silk handkerchief. Then he + laid his hand on the other's shoulder. “I understand,” he said simply. + There was silence. Finally Drake wiped his face and cleared his throat. + </p> + <p> + “And now, with your permission, we'll get down to tacks, Mr. William C. + Dagget—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't call me that, Jimmie. I'm not that—yet. I'm Billy Garrison + until I've won the Carter Handicap—proven myself clean.” + </p> + <p> + “Right, kid. And that's what I wished to speak about. In the first place, + Major Calvert knows where you are. Colonel and Miss Desha do not. In fact, + kid,” added Drake, rubbing his chin, “the major and I have a little plot + hatched up between us. Your identity, if possible is not to be made known + to the colonel and his daughter until the finish of the Carter. + Understand?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Garrison flatly. “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because, kid, you're not going to ride Speedaway. You're not going to + ride for my stable. You're going to ride Colonel Desha's Rogue—ride + as you never rode before. Ride and win. That's why.” + </p> + <p> + Garrison only stared as Drake ran on. “See here, kid, this race means + everything to the colonel—everything in the world. Every cent he has + is at stake; his honor, his life, his daughter's happiness. He's proud, + cussed proud, and he's kept it mum. And the girl—Miss Desha has + bucked poverty like a thoroughbred. I got to know the facts, picking them + up here and there, and the major knows, too. We've got to work in the + dark, for the colonel would die first if he knew the truth, before he + would accept help even indirectly. The Rogue must win; must. But what + chance has he against the major's Dixie, my Speedaway, and the Morgan + entry—Swallow? And so the major has scratched his mount, giving out + that Dixie has developed eczema. + </p> + <p> + “Now, the colonel is searching high and low for a jockey capable of + handling The Rogue. It'll take a good man. I recommended you. He doesn't + know your identity, for the major and I have kept it from him. He only + thinks you are <i>the</i> Garrison who has come back. I have fixed it up + with him that you are to ride his mount, and The Rogue will arrive + to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + “The colonel is a wreck mentally and physically; living on nerve. I've + agreed to put the finishing touches on The Rogue, and he, knowing my + ability and facilities, has permitted me. It's all in my hands—pretty + near. Now, Red McGloin is up on the Morgan entry—Swallow. He used to + be a stable-boy for Waterbury. I guess you've heard of him. He's developed + into a first-class boy. But I want to see you lick the hide off him. The + fight will lie between you and him. I know the rest of the field—” + </p> + <p> + “But Speedaway?” cried Garrison, jumping to his feet. “Jimmie—you! + It's too great a sacrifice; too great, too great. I know how you've longed + to win the Carter; what it means to you; how you have slaved to earn it. + Jimmie—Jimmie—don't tempt me. You can't mean you've scratched + Speedaway!” + </p> + <p> + “Just that, kid,” said Drake grimly. “The first scratch in my life—and + the last. Speedaway? Well, she and I will win again some other time. Some + time, kid, when we ain't playing against a man's life and a girl's + happiness. I'll scratch for those odds. It's for you, kid—you and + the girl. Remember, you're carrying her colors, her life. + </p> + <p> + “You'll have a good fight—but fight as you never fought before; as + you never hope to fight again. Cottonton will watch you, kid. Don't shame + them; don't shame me. Show 'em what you're made of. Show Red that a former + stable-boy, no matter what class he is now, can't have the licking of a + former master. Show 'em a has-been can come back. Show 'em what Garrison + stands for. Show 'em your finish, kid—I'll ask no more. And you'll + carry Jimmie Drake's heart—Oh, fuss! I can't tell a yarn, nohow.” + </p> + <p> + In silence Garrison gripped Drake's hand. And if ever a mighty resolution + was welded in a human heart—a resolution born of love, everything; + one that nothing could deny—it was born that moment in Garrison's. + Born as the tears stood in his eyes, and, man as he was, he could not keep + up; nor did he shame his manhood by denying them. “Kid, kid,” said Drake. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. + </h2> + <h3> + GARRISON'S FINISH. + </h3> + <p> + It was April 16. Month of budding life; month of hope; month of spring + when all the world is young again; when the heart thaws out after its long + winter frigidity. It was the day of the opening of the Eastern racing + season; the day of the Carter Handicap. + </p> + <p> + Though not one of the “classics,” the Carter annually draws an attendance + of over ten thousand; ten thousand enthusiasts who have not had a chance + to see the ponies run since the last autumn race; those who had been + unable to follow them on the Southern circuit. Women of every walk of + life; all sorts and conditions of men. Enthusiasts glad to be out in the + life-giving sunshine of April; panting for excitement; full to the mouth + with volatile joy; throwing off the shackles of the business treadmill; + discarding care with the ubiquitous umbrella and winter flannels; taking + fortune boldly by the hand; returning to first principles; living for the + moment; for the trial of skill, endurance, and strength; staking enough in + the balances to bring a fillip to the heart and the blood to the cheek. + </p> + <p> + It was a typical American crowd; long-suffering, giving and taking—principally + giving—good-humored, just. All morning it came in a seemingly + endless chain; uncoupling link by link, only to weld together again. All + morning long, ferries, trolleys, trains were jammed with the race-mad + throng. Coming by devious ways, for divers reasons; coming from all + quarters by every medium; centering at last at the Queen's County Jockey + Club. + </p> + <p> + And never before in the history of the Aqueduct track had so thoroughly a + representative body of racegoers assembled at an opening day. Never before + had Long Island lent sitting and standing room to so impressive a + gathering of talent, money, and family. Every one interested in the + various phases of the turf was there, but even they only formed a small + portion of the attendance. + </p> + <p> + Rumors floated from paddock to stand and back again. The air was + surcharged with these wireless messages, bearing no signature nor + guarantee of authenticity. And borne on the crest of all these rumors was + one—great, paramount. Garrison, the former great Garrison, had come + back. He was to ride; ride the winner of the last Carter, the winner of a + fluke race. + </p> + <p> + The world had not forgotten. They remembered The Rogue's last race. They + remembered Garrison's last race. The wise ones said that The Rogue could + not possibly win. This time there could be no fluke, for the great Red + McGloin was up on the favorite. The Rogue would be shown in his true + colors—a second-rater. + </p> + <p> + Speculation was rife. This Carter Handicap presented many, many features + that kept the crowd at fever-heat. Garrison had come back. Garrison had + been reinstated. Garrison was up on a mount he had been accused of + permitting to win last year. Those who wield the muck-rake for the sake of + general filth, not in the name of justice, shook their heads and lifted + high hands to Heaven. It looked bad. Why should Garrison be riding for + Colonel Desha? Why had Jimmie Drake transferred him at the eleventh hour? + Why had Drake scratched Speedaway? Why had Major Calvert scratched Dixie? + The latter was an outsider, but they had heard great things of her. + </p> + <p> + “Cooked,” said the muck-rakers wisely, and, thinking it was a show-down + for the favorite, stacked every cent they had on Swallow. No long shots + for them. + </p> + <p> + And some there were who cursed Drake and Major Calvert; cursed long and + intelligently—those who had bet on Speedaway and Dixie, bet on the + play-or-pay basis, and now that the mounts were scratched, they had been + bitten. It was entirely wrong to tempt Fortune, and then have her turn on + you. She should always be down on the “other fellow”—not you. + </p> + <p> + And then there were those, and many, who did not question, who were glad + to know that Garrison had come back on any terms. They had liked him for + himself. They were the weak-kneed variety who are stanch in prosperity; + who go with the world; coincide with the world's verdict. The world had + said Garrison was crooked. If they had not agreed, they had not denied. If + Garrison now had been reinstated, then the world said he was honest. They + agreed now—loudly; adding the old shibboleth of the moral coward: “I + told you so.” But still they doubted that he had “come back.” A has-been + can never come back. + </p> + <p> + The conservative element backed Morgan's Swallow. Red McGloin was up, and + he was proven class. He had stepped into Garrison's niche of fame. He was + the popular idol now. And, as Garrison had once warned him, he was already + beginning to pay the price. The philosophy of the exercise boy had changed + to the philosophy of the idol; the idol who cannot be pulled down. And he + had suffered. He had gone through part of what Garrison had gone through, + but he also had experienced what the latter's inherent cleanliness had + kept him from. + </p> + <p> + Temptation had come Red's way; come strong without reservation. Red, with + the hunger of the long-denied, with the unrestricted appetite of the + intellectually low, had not discriminated. And he had suffered. His + trainer had watched him carefully, but youth must have its fling, and + youth had flung farther than watching wisdom reckoned. + </p> + <p> + Red had not gone back. He was young yet. But the first flush of his + manhood had gone; the cream had been stolen. His nerve was just a little + less than it had been; his eye and hand a little less steady; his judgment + a little less sound; his initiative, daring, a little less paramount. And + races have been won and lost, and will be won and lost, when that “little + Less” is the deciding breath that tips the scale. + </p> + <p> + But he had no misgivings. Was he not the idol? Was he not up on Swallow, + the favorite? Swallow, with the odds—two to one—on. He knew + Garrison was to ride The Rogue. What did that matter? The Rogue was ten to + one against. The Rogue was a fluke horse. Garrison was a has-been. The + track says a has-been can never come back. Of course Garrison had been to + the dogs during the past year—what down-and-out jockey has not gone + there? And if Drake had transferred him to Desha, it was a case of good + riddance. Drake was famous for his eccentric humor. But he was a sound + judge of horse-flesh. No doubt he knew what a small chance Speedaway had + against Swallow, and he had scratched advisedly; playing the Morgan entry + instead. + </p> + <p> + In the grand stand sat three people wearing a blue and gold ribbon—the + Desha colors. Occasionally they were reinforced by a big man, who + circulated between them and the paddock. The latter was Jimmie Drake. The + others were “Cottonton,” as the turfman called them. They were Major and + Mrs. Calvert and Sue Desha. + </p> + <p> + Colonel Desha was not there. He was eating his heart out back home. The + nerve he had been living on had suddenly snapped at the eleventh hour. He + was denied watching the race he had paid so much in every way to enter. + The doctors had forbidden his leaving. His heart could not stand the + excitement; his constitution could not meet the long journey North. And so + alone, propped up in bed, he waited; waited, counting off each minute; + more excited, wrought up, than if he had been at the track. + </p> + <p> + It had been arranged that in the event of The Rogue winning, the good news + should be telegraphed to the colonel the moment the gelding flashed past + the judges' stand. He had insisted on that and on his daughter being + present. Some member of the family must be there to back The Rogue in his + game fight. And so Sue, in company with the major and his wife, had gone. + </p> + <p> + She had taken little interest in the race. She knew what it meant, no one + knew better than she, but somehow she had no room left for care to occupy. + She was apathetic, listless; a striking contrast to the major and his + wife, who could hardly repress their feelings. They knew what she would + find at the Aqueduct track—find the world. She did not. + </p> + <p> + All she knew was that Drake, whom she liked for his rough, patent manhood, + had very kindly offered the services of his jockey; a jockey whom he had + faith in. Who that jockey was, she did not know, nor overmuch care. A + greater sorrow had obliterated her racing passion; had even ridden + roughshod over the fear of financial ruin. Her mind was numb. + </p> + <p> + For days succeeding Drake's statement to her that Garrison was not married + she waited for some word from him. Drake had explained how Garrison had + thought he was married. He had explained all that. She could never forget + the joy that had swamped her on hearing it; even as she could never forget + the succeeding days of waiting misery; waiting, waiting, waiting for some + word. He had been proven honest, proven Major Calvert's nephew, proven + free. What more could he ask? Then why had he not come, written? + </p> + <p> + She could not believe he no longer cared. She could not believe that; + rather, she would not. She gaged his heart by her own. Hers was the + woman's portion—inaction. She must still wait, wait, wait. Still she + must eat her heart out. Hers was the woman's portion. And if he did not + come, if he did not write—even in imagination she could never + complete the alternative. She must live in hope; live in hope, in faith, + in trust, or not at all. + </p> + <p> + Colonel Desha's enforced absence overcame the one difficulty Major Calvert + and Jimmie Drake had acknowledged might prematurely explode their hidden + identity mine. The colonel, exercising his owner's prerogative, would have + fussed about The Rogue until the last minute. Of course he would have + interviewed Garrison, giving him riding instructions, etc. Now Drake + assumed the right by proxy, and Sue, after one eager-whispered word to The + Rogue, had assumed her position in the grand stand. + </p> + <p> + Garrison was up-stairs in the jockey's quarters of the new paddock + structure, the lower part of which is reserved for the clerical force, and + so she had not seen him. But presently the word that Garrison was to ride + flew everywhere, and Sue heard it. She turned slowly to Drake, standing at + her elbow, his eyes on the paddock. + </p> + <p> + “Is it true that a jockey called Garrison is to ride to-day?” she asked, a + strange light in her eyes. What that name meant to her! + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes, I believe so, Miss Desha,” replied Drake, delightfully + innocent. “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she said slowly. “How—how queer! I mean—isn't it queer + that two people should have the same name? I suppose this one copied it; + imitation being the sincerest form of flattery. I hope he does the name + justice. Do you know him? He is a good rider? What horse is he up on?” + </p> + <p> + Drake, wisely enough, chose the last question. “A ten-to-one shot,” he + replied illuminatingly. “Perhaps you'll bet on him, Miss Desha, eh? It's + what we call a hunch—coincidence or anything like that. Shall I + place a bet for you?” + </p> + <p> + The girl's eyes kindled strangely. Then she hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “But—but I can't bet against The Rogue. It would not be loyal.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Calvert laughed softly. + </p> + <p> + “There are exceptions, dear.” In a low aside she added: “Haven't you that + much faith in the name of Garrison? There, I know you have. I would be + ashamed to tell you how much the major and I have up on that name. And you + know I never bet, as a rule. It is very wrong.” + </p> + <p> + And so Sue, the blood in her cheeks, handed all her available cash to + Drake to place on the name of Garrison. She would pretend it was the + original. Just pretend. + </p> + <p> + “Here they come,” yelled Drake, echoed by the rippling shout of the crowd. + </p> + <p> + The girl rose, white-faced; striving to pick out the blue and gold of the + Desha stable. + </p> + <p> + And here they came, the thirteen starters; thirteen finished examples of + God and man's handicraft. Speed, endurance, skill, nerve, grit—all + were there. Horse and rider trained to the second. Bone, muscle, sinew, + class. And foremost of the string came Swallow, the favorite, Red McGloin, + confidently smiling, sitting with the conscious ease of the idol who has + carried off the past year's Brooklyn Handicap. + </p> + <p> + Good horses there were; good and true. There were Black Knight and + Scapegrace, Rightful and Happy Lad, Bean Eater and Emetic—the latter + the great sprinter who was bracketed with Swallow on the book-maker's + sheets. Mares, fillies, geldings—every offering of horse-flesh above + three years. All striving for the glory and honor of winning this great + sprint handicap. The monetary value was the lesser virtue. Eight thousand + dollars for the first horse; fifteen hundred for the second; five hundred + for the third. All striving to be at least placed within the money—placed + for the honor and glory and standing. + </p> + <p> + Last of all came The Rogue, black, lean, dangerous. Trained for the fight + of his life from muzzle to clean-cut hoofs. Those hoofs had been cared for + more carefully than the hands of any queen; packed every day in the soft, + velvety red clay brought all the way from the Potomac River. + </p> + <p> + Garrison, in the blue and gold of the Desha stable, his mouth drawn across + his face like a taut wire, sat hunched high on The Rogue's neck. He looked + as lean and dangerous as his mount. His seat was recognized instantly, + before even his face could be discerned. + </p> + <p> + A murmur, increasing rapidly to a roar, swung out from every foot of + space. Some one cried “Garrison!” And “Garrison! Garrison! Garrison!” was + caught up and flung back like the spume of sea from the surf-lashed coast. + </p> + <p> + He knew the value of that hail, and how only one year ago his name had + been spewed from out those selfsame laudatory mouths with venom and + contempt. He knew his public. Adversity had been a mighty master. The + public—they who live in the present, not the past. They who swear by + triumph, achievement; not effort. They who have no memory for the deeds + that have been done unless they vouch for future conquests. The public—fickle + as woman, weak as infancy, gullible as credulity, mighty as fate. Yes, + Garrison knew it, and deep down in his heart, though he showed it not, he + gloried in the welcome accorded him. He had not been forgotten. + </p> + <p> + But he had no false hopes, illusions. His had been the welcome vouchsafed + the veteran who is hopelessly facing his last fight. They, perhaps, + admired his grit, his optimism; admired while they pitied. But how many, + how many, really thought he was there to win? How many thought he could + win? + </p> + <p> + He knew, and his heart did not quicken nor his pulse increase so much as a + beat. He was cool, implacable, and dangerous as a rattler waiting for the + opportune moment to spring. He looked neither to right nor left. He was + deaf, impervious. He was there to win. That only. + </p> + <p> + And he would win? Why not? What were the odds of ten to one? What was the + opinion, the judgment of man? What was anything compared with what he was + fighting for? What horse, what jockey among them all was backed by what he + was backed with? What impulse, what stimulant, what overmastering, driving + necessity had they compared with his? And The Rogue knew what was expected + of him that day. + </p> + <p> + It was only as Garrison was passing the grand stand during the preliminary + warming-up process that his nerve faltered. He glanced up—he was + compelled to. A pair of eyes were drawing his. He glanced up—there + was “Cottonton”; “Cottonton” and Sue Desha. The girl's hands were tightly + clenched in her lap, her head thrown forward; her eyes obliterating space; + eating into his own. How long he looked into those eyes he did not know. + The major, his wife, Drake—all were shut out. He only saw those + eyes. And as he looked he saw that the eyes understood at last; understood + all. He remembered lifting his cap. That was all. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “They're off! They're off!” That great, magic cry; fingering at the heart, + tingling the blood. Signal for a roar from every throat; for the + stretching of every neck to the dislocating point; for prayers, + imprecations, adjurations—the entire stock of nature's sentiment + factory. Sentiment, unbridled, unleashed, unchecked. Passion given a kick + and sent hurtling without let or hindrance. + </p> + <p> + The barrier was down. They were off. Off in a smother of spume and dust. + Off for the short seven furlongs eating up less than a minute and a half + of time. All this preparation, all the preliminaries, the whetting of + appetites to razor edge, the tilts with fortune, the defiance of fate, the + moil and toil and tribulations of months—all brought to a head, + focused on this minute and a half. All, all for one minute and a half! + </p> + <p> + It had been a clean break from the barrier. But in a flash Emetic was away + first, hugging the rail. Swallow, taking her pace with all McGloin's nerve + and skill, had caught her before she had traveled half a dozen yards. + Emetic flung dirt hard, but Swallow hung on, using her as a wind-shield. + She was using the pacemaker's “going.” + </p> + <p> + The track was in surprisingly good condition, but there were streaks of + damp, lumpy track throughout the long back and home-stretch. This favored + The Rogue; told against the fast sprinters Swallow and Emetic. After the + two-yard gap left by the leaders came a bunch of four, with The Rogue in + the center. + </p> + <p> + “Pocketed already!” yelled some derisively. Garrison never heeded. Emetic + was the fastest sprinter there that day; a sprinter, not a stayer. There + is a lot of luck in a handicap. If a sprinter with a light weight up can + get away first, she may never be headed till the finish. But it had been a + clear break, and Swallow had caught on. + </p> + <p> + The pace was heart-breaking; murderous; terrific. Emetic's rider had taken + a chance and lost it; lost it when McGloin caught him. Swallow was a + better stayer; as fast as a sprinter. But if Emetic could not spread-eagle + the field, she could set a pace that would try the stamina and lungs of + Pegasus. And she did. First furlong in thirteen seconds. Record for the + Aqueduct. A record sent flying to flinders. My! that was going some. + Quarter-mile in twenty-four flat. Another record wiped out. What a pace! + </p> + <p> + A great cry went up. Could Emetic hold out? Could she stay, after all? + Could she do what she had never done before? Swallow's backers began to + blanch. Why, why was McGloin pressing so hard? Why? why? Emetic must tire. + Must, must, must. Why would McGloin insist on taking that pace? It was a + mistake, a mistake. The race had twisted his brain. The fight for + leadership had biased his judgment. If he was not careful that lean, + hungry-looking horse, with Garrison up, would swing out from the bunch, + fresh, unkilled by pace-following, and beat him to a froth. . . . + </p> + <p> + There, there! Look at that! Look at that! God! how Garrison is riding! + Riding as he never rode before. Has he come back? Look at him. . . . I + told you so. I told you so. There comes that black fiend across—It's + a foul! No, no. He's clear. He's clear. There he goes. He's clear. He's + slipped the bunch, skinned a leader's nose, jammed against the rail. Look + how he's hugging it! Look! He's hugging McGloin's heels. He's waiting, + waiting. . . . There, there! It's Emetic. See, she's wet from head to + hock. She is, she is! She's tiring; tiring fast. . . . See! . . . McGloin, + McGloin, McGloin! You're riding, boy, riding. Good work. Snappy work. + You've got Emetic dead to rights. You were all right in following her + pace. I knew you were. I knew she would tire. Only two furlongs—What? + What's that? . . . Garrison? That plug Rogue? . . . Oh, Red, Red! . . . + Beat him, Red, beat him! It's only a bluff. He's not in your class. He + can't hang on. . . . Beat him, Red, beat him! Don't let a has-been put it + all over you! . . . Ride, you cripple, ride! . . . What? Can't you shake + him off? . . . Slug him! . . . Watch out! He's trying for the rail. Crowd + him, crowd him! . . . What's the matter with you? . . . Where's your + nerve? You can't shake him off! Beat him down the stretch! He's fresh. He + wasn't the fool to follow pace, like you. . . . What's the matter with + you? He's crowding you—look out, there! Jam him! . . . He's pushing + you hard. . . . Neck and neck, you fool. That black fiend can't be + stopped. . . . Use the whip! Red, use the whip! It's all you've left. Slug + her, slug her! That's it, that's it! Slug speed into her. Only a furlong + to go. . . . Come on, Red, come on! . . . + </p> + <p> + Here they come, in a smother of dust. Neck and neck down the stretch. The + red and white of the Morgan stable; the blue and gold of the Desha. It's + Swallow. No, no, it's The Rogue. Back and forth, back and forth stormed + the rival names. The field was pandemonium. “Cottonton” was a mass of + frantic arms, raucous voices, white faces. Drake, his pudgy hands whanging + about like semaphore-signals in distress, was blowing his lungs out: “Come + on, kid come on! You've got him now! He can't last! Come on, come on!—for + my sake, for your sake, for anybody's sake, but only come!” + </p> + <p> + Game Swallow's eyes had a blue film over them. The heart-breaking + pace-following had told. Red's error of judgment had told. The “little + less” had told. A frenzied howl went up. “Garrison! Garrison! Garrison!” + The name that had once meant so much now meant—everything. For in a + swirl of dust and general undiluted Hades, the horses had stormed past the + judges' stand. The great Carter was lost and won. + </p> + <p> + Swallow, with a thin streamer of blood threading its way from her + nostrils, was a beaten horse; a game, plucky, beaten favorite. It was all + over. Already The Rogue's number had been posted. It was all over; all + over. The finish of a heart-breaking fight; the establishing of a new + record for the Aqueduct. And a name had been replaced in its former high + niche. The has-been had come back. + </p> + <p> + And “Cottonton,” led by a white-faced girl and a big, apoplectic turfman, + were forgetting dignity, decorum, and conventionality as hand in hand they + stormed through the surging eruption of humanity fighting to get a chance + at little Billy Garrison's hand. + </p> + <p> + And as, saddle on shoulder, he stood on the weighing-scales and caught + sight of the oncoming hosts of “Cottonton” and read what the girl's eyes + held, then, indeed, he knew all that his finish had earned him—the + beginning of a new life with a new name; the beginning of one that the + lesson he had learned, backed by the great love that had come to him, + would make—paradise. And his one unuttered prayer was: “Dear God, + make me worthy, make me worthy of them—all!” + </p> + <p> + Aftermath was a blur to “Garrison.” Great happiness can obscure, befog + like great sorrow. And there are some things that touch the heart too + vitally to admit of analyzation. But long afterward, when time, mighty + adjuster of the human soul, had given to events their true proportions, + that meeting with “Cottonton” loomed up in all its greatness, all its + infinite appeal to the emotions, all its appeal to what is highest and + worthiest in man. In silence, before all that little world, Sue Desha had + put her arms about his neck. In silence he had clasped the major's hand. + In silence he had turned to his aunt; and what he read in her misty eyes, + read in the eyes of all, even the shrewd, kindly eyes of Drake the Silent + and in the slap from his congratulatory paw, was all that man could ask; + more than man could deserve. + </p> + <p> + Afterward the entire party, including Jimmie Drake, who was regarded as + the grand master of Cottonton by this time, took train for New York. + Regarding the environment, it was somewhat like a former ride “Garrison” + had taken; regarding the atmosphere, it was as different as hope from + despair. Now Sue was seated by his side, her eyes never once leaving his + face. She was not ordinarily one to whom words were ungenerous, but now + she could not talk. She could only look and look, as if her happiness + would vanish before his eyes. “Garrison” was thinking, thinking of many + things. Somehow, words were unkind to him, too; somehow, they seemed quite + unnecessary. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember this time a year ago?” he asked gravely at length. “It + was the first time I saw you. Then it was purgatory to exist, now it is + heaven to live. It must be a dream. Why is it that those who deserve + least, invariably are given most? Is it the charity of Heaven, or—what?” + He turned and looked into her eyes. She smuggled her hand across to his. + </p> + <p> + “You,” she exclaimed, a caressing, indolent inflection in her soft voice. + “You.” That “you” is a peculiar characteristic caress of the Southerner. + Its meaning is infinite. “I'm too happy to analyze,” she confided, her + eyes growing dark. “And it is not the charity of Heaven, but the charity + of—man.” + </p> + <p> + “You mustn't say that,” he whispered. “It is you, not me. It is you who + are all and I nothing. It is you.” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head, smiling. There was an air of seductive luxury about + her. She kept her eyes unwaveringly on his. “You,” she said again. + </p> + <p> + “And there's old Jimmie Drake,” added “Garrison” musingly, at length, a + light in his eyes. He nodded up the aisle where the turfman was + entertaining the major and his wife. “There's a man, Sue, dear. A man + whose friendship is not a thing of condition nor circumstance. I will + always strive to earn, keep it as I will strive to be worthy of your love. + I know what it cost Drake to scratch Speedaway. I will not, cannot forget. + We owe everything to him, dear; everything.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” said the girl, nodding. “And I, we owe everything to him. He is + sort of revered down home like a Messiah, or something like that. You + don't know those days of complete misery and utter hopelessness, and what + his coming meant. He seemed like a great big sun bursting through a + cyclone. I think he understands that there is, and always will be, a very + big, warm place in Cottonton's heart for him. At least, we-all have told + him often enough. He's coming down home with us now—with you.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and looked steadily into her great eyes. His hand went out to + meet hers. + </p> + <p> + “You,” whispered the girl again. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Garrison's Finish, by W. B. M. Ferguson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GARRISON'S FINISH *** + +***** This file should be named 2989-h.htm or 2989-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/8/2989/ + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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