W-B-M- FERGUSON
 
 97C 
 
 \.
 
 /
 
 OF CALIF. LIBRARY, LOS ANGELA
 
 "You'll ride her ride her as no one else can." 
 
 Frontispiece. Po
 
 Garrison's Finish 
 
 A Romance of the Race-course 
 
 BY 
 
 W. B. M. FERGUSON 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "Strange Cases of a Medical Free Lance,*' 
 "Zollenstein." 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
 
 CHARLES GRUNWALD 
 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 

 
 Copyright, 1907 
 By G. W. DILLINGHAM CO. 
 
 Garrison's Finish kued July, 1907
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 I. 
 
 A Shattered Idol 
 
 FAGH 
 II 
 
 II. 
 
 The Heavy Hand of Fate . . . 
 
 34 
 
 III. 
 
 Beginning a New Life 
 
 50 
 
 IV. 
 
 A Ready-made Heir .... 
 
 70 
 
 V. 
 
 Also a Ready-made Husband 
 
 92 
 
 VI. 
 
 "You're Billy Garrison" 
 
 "3 
 
 VII. 
 
 Snark Shows His Fangs 
 
 133 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The Colonel's Confession . 
 
 146 
 
 IX. 
 
 A Breath of the Old Life . . . . 
 
 160 
 
 X. 
 
 "Then I Was Not Honest" 
 
 177 
 
 XI. 
 
 Sue Declares Her Love .... 
 
 190 
 
 XII. 
 
 Garrison Himself Again 
 
 206 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Proven Clean 
 
 218 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Garrison Finds Himself 
 
 234 
 
 XV. 
 
 Garrison's Finish 
 
 257 
 
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 2128846
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PACK 
 
 "You'll ride her ride her as no one else can" . . Frontispiece 165 
 "You're queered for good. You couldn't get a mount anywhere" 27 
 
 "How dare you insult my daughter, suh?" 47 
 
 The girl's laugh floated tantalizin jiy over his shoulder . . 123 
 
 "I can't give you up, I won't '." 203 
 
 A frenzied howl went up. "Garrison ! Garrison ! Garrison !" 278
 
 GARRISON'S 
 
 FINISH. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A Shattered Idol. 
 
 As he made his way out of the paddock Gar- 
 rison carefully tilted his bag of Durham into the 
 curved rice-paper held between nicotin-stained fin- 
 ger 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. 
 
 He smiled cynically as he shouldered his way 
 through the slowly moving crowd that kaleido- 
 scope 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. 
 
 II
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 To the jibes, the sneers flung at him, the in- 
 nuendos, the open insults, and, worst of all, the 
 sad looks of those few friends who gave their 
 friendship without conditions, he was not indif- 
 ferent, though he seemed so. God knows how 
 he felt it all. And all the more so because he 
 
 12
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 had once been so high. Now his fall was so 
 low, so pitifully low; so contemptible, so complete. 
 
 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 
 
 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. 
 
 Then when he began to go back No ; worse. 
 
 Not that. They said he had gone crooked. That
 
 Garrison^ s Finish 
 
 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 
 
 Garrison, stung to madness by retrospect, 
 humped his way through the crowd at the gates 
 to the Aqueduct. There was not a friendly eye 
 in that crowd. He stuffed his ears with indiffer- 
 ence. He would not hear 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. 
 
 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.
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "I've looked for you," he whipped out veno- 
 mously, 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 for- 
 ward for each word, his bad grammar coming 
 equally to the fore. 
 
 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. 
 
 "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 heav- 
 
 15
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 ing chest. "But you can't heap your filth on me, 
 I'm done with you. You're a thief, a cur " 
 
 "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. 
 
 "Just a minute," he added, striving to keep his 
 yoice 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 hap- 
 pened. 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 
 
 16
 
 Garrison s Fi rfi s h 
 
 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 crum- 
 pled the silk handkerchief and pushed it swiftly 
 into Waterbury's glowering eye. 
 
 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 fail? 
 play. 
 
 Garrison, a small hell let loose, had risen from 
 the turf for the third time! his face a smear of 
 blood, venom, and all the bandit passions. Water- 
 bury, 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. 
 
 The blows were caught on the thick arm of a 
 tan box-coat. A big hand was placed over Water-
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 foury'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 ap- 
 plauded. 
 
 Jimmy was a popular boot-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. 
 
 "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." 
 
 Waterbury was on his feet now. He let loose 
 some vitriolic verbiage, using Drake as the objec- 
 tive-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 
 
 "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 uncom- 
 
 18
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 fortable 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 " 
 
 "I've stood enough of those slurs," cried Water- 
 bury, in a frenzy. "You lie." 
 
 Instantly Drake's large face stiffened like ce- 
 ment, and his overcoat was on the ground. 
 
 "That's a fighting word where I come from," he 
 said grimly. 
 
 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, man- 
 aged to preserve the remains of the badly shat- 
 tered peace. Drake sullenly resumed his coat, and 
 Waterbury was driven off, leaving a back draft of 
 impolite adjectives and vague threats against every- 
 body. The crowd drifted away. It was a fitting 
 finish for the scotched Carter Handicap.
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 Meanwhile, Garrison, taking advantage of the 
 switching of the lime-light from himself to Drake, 
 had dodged to oblivion in the crowd. 
 
 "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 sav- 
 age 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 clothes- 
 horse to run in a potato-race? Buck up, buck up, 
 and plug your croton 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 
 
 .20
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 hon- 
 est enough for ten men then. Anyway, there's no 
 one cares a curse how you pan out " 
 
 He stopped, and his face slowly relaxed. The 
 hard, vindictive look slowly faded from his nar- 
 rowed eyes. 
 
 "Sis," he said softly. "Sis I was going with- 
 out saying good-by. Forgive me." 
 
 He swung on his heel, and with hunched shoul- 
 ders made his way back to the Aqueduct. Water- 
 bury's training-quarters were adjacent, and, after 
 lurking furtively about like some hunted animal, 
 Garrison summoned all his nerve and walked 
 boldly in. 
 
 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 
 
 21
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "Hello!" returned Red non-committally. 
 
 "Where's Crimmins?" 
 
 "In there." Red nodded to the left where were 
 situated the stalls. "Gettin' Sis ready for the Bel- 
 mont opening." 
 
 "Riding for him now?" 
 
 "Yeh. Promised a mount in th' next run-off. 
 'Bout time, I guess." 
 
 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. 
 
 "Kid," he said, and his voice quivered, "you 
 
 22
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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 " 
 
 "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 every- 
 thing. See," he ran on feverishly, glad of the op- 
 portunity 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." 
 
 "Yeh, because yeh choked Sis off in th' stretch.
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 She could ha' slept home a winner, an' yeh know 
 it, Billy," said Red, with sullen regret. 
 
 There was a time when he never would have 
 dared to call Garrison by his Christian name. Dis- 
 grace is a great leveler. Red grew more conscious 
 of his own rectitude. 
 
 "I ain't knockin' yeh, Billy," he continued, speak- 
 ing slowly, to lengthen the pleasure of thus mono- 
 polizing 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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 24
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 "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 got 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," 
 
 25
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 Without heeding Red's pessimistic reply, Gar- 
 rison turned on his heel and entered the stall where 
 Sis, the Carter Handicap favorite, was being boxed 
 for the coming Belmont opening. 
 
 Crimmins, the trainer, looked up sharply as Gar- 
 rison 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 sim- 
 ile was merited. But he was an excellent flesh han- 
 dler; and Waterbury, an old ex-bookie, knew what
 
 You're queered for good. You couldn't get a mount anywhere. 1 
 
 Page 27.
 
 Garrisons Finish 
 
 he was about when he appointed him head of the 
 stable. 
 
 "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 thick- 
 ness 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 Crim- 
 mins 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. 
 
 "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 
 you're 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
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 Garrison was silent. He did not try to vindi- 
 cate himself. He had given that up as hopeless. He 
 was thinking, oblivious to Crimmins' eulogy. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Eh?" asked Garrison. 
 
 "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 
 
 28
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 Again Garrison was silent. But now a smile 
 was on his face. He had been asking himself what 
 was the use of honesty. 
 
 "What d'you say?" asked Crimmins, his head 
 on one side, his small eyes calculating. 
 
 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." 
 
 "All right. She's over there." 
 
 The handlers fell back in silence as Garrison ap- 
 proached the filly. He was softly humming the mu- 
 sic-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 fare- 
 well without an audience. Sis whinnied as Gar- 
 
 29
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 rison raised her small head and looked steadily into 
 her soft, dark eyes. 
 
 "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?" 
 
 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 j 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. 
 
 The filly understood. She lipped his face, whin- 
 nying 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. 
 
 59
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "No, it doesn't take much thinking, Dan," agreed 
 Garrison slowly, his eyes narrowed. "I'll rot first 
 before I touch it" 
 
 "Yes?" The trainer raised his thick eyebrows 
 31
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 and lowered his thin voice. "Kind of tony, ain't 
 yeh? Beggars can't be choosers." 
 
 "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 any- 
 thing anything; dirt of any kind, so long's there's 
 money under it." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "You wanted me to go crooked, Dan," said Gar- 
 rison steadily. "Was it friendship " 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "You mean that, Dan?" Garrison's face was 
 white. "You've trained me, and yet you, too, be-
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 lieve I was in on those lost races? You know I 
 lost every cent on Sis " 
 
 "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." 
 
 Billy Garrison eyed his former trainer and men- 
 tor steadily for a long time. His lip was quivering. 
 
 "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" hum- 
 ming in a desperate effort to keep his nerve. Billy 
 Garrison had touched bottom in the depths. 
 
 33
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Heavy Hand of Fate. 
 
 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 Gar- 
 rison-Loring entente cordiale a polite definition of 
 a huge mistake. 
 
 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 dar- 
 ing. From his father well, Garrison never liked 
 
 34
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 to talk about his father. His mother was a mem- 
 ory; 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 Garrisons 
 father where no one else had. 
 
 Her family threw her off at least, when sne 
 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
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 held for hotel bills but she had lived out her mis* 
 take gamely. 
 
 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 virtuouos. Sometimes the 
 worst man can love the most in his selfish way. 
 And Garrison resented the arrival of Billy. He re- 
 sented sharing his wife's affection with the boy. 
 
 In time he came to hate his son. Billy's educa- 
 tion 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. 
 
 He knew his father never cared for him, though 
 his mother tried her best to gloze over the indif- 
 ference 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 
 
 36
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
 37
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 in a bottomless abyss filled with bitter tears and 
 nauseating regrets ; the abyss called, "It might have 
 been." 
 
 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, allur- 
 ing garments. Red's moral diatribe had been cor- 
 rect. 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. 
 
 Then he awoke top 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? 
 
 38
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 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. 
 
 That had been his 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
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 in. He would show that he was master. He 
 would fight this insidious vitality vampire; fight 
 and conquer. 
 
 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. 
 
 Came a day when in the paddock Dan Crimmins 
 had seen that fleck of arterial blood on the hand- 
 kerchief. Then Dan shared the secret. He com- 
 menced to doctor Garrison. Before every race 
 the jockey had a drug. But despite it he rode 
 worse than an exercise-boy; rode despicably. The 
 
 40
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 Carter Handicap had finished his deal. And with 
 it Garrison had lost his reputation. 
 
 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. Horse- 
 flesh, 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. 
 
 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. . 
 
 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 fre- 
 quently and in no complimentary manner. His soul 
 had been stripped bare, sensitive to a breath. It 
 would writhe under the mild compassion of .a for- 
 mer admirer as much as it would under the open
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Then, imperceptibly, as Garrison's staring, blank 
 eyes slowly turned from within to without, occa- 
 sioned by a violent jolt of the train, something 
 flashed across their retina; they became focused, 
 and a message was wired to his brain. Instantly 
 
 42
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 his eyes dropped, and he fidgeted uncomfortably in 
 his seat. 
 
 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 re- 
 moved down the aisle. As he was seated with his 
 back to the engine, he was thus confronting them. 
 
 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. Gar- 
 rison instantly decided that they were beautiful. 
 He furtively peered up from under his hat. She 
 was still looking at him fixedly without the slight- 
 est embarrassment. 
 
 Garrison was not susceptible to the eternal fem- 
 inine. 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 criti- 
 cize 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. 
 
 43
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 He noted also that she had a mole under her left 
 eye. But one always returned from the facial per- 
 egrinations to her eyes. After a long stare Gar- 
 rison caught himself wishing that he could kiss 
 those eyes. That threw him into a panic. 
 
 "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." 
 
 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. 
 
 "As if it mattered a curse," he laughed contemp- 
 tuously. 
 
 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 
 
 44
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 the blue haze of the smoker. They had evidently 
 been "smoked out." Some of them were sober. 
 
 Garrison half -lowered his head as the crowd en- 
 tered. 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-col- 
 ored 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. 
 "Pardon me, this seat is reserved." 
 "Don't look like it," said Behemoth. 
 "But I say it is. Isn't that enough?" 
 "Full house; no reserved seats," observed the 
 man placidly, squeezing in. 
 
 The girl flashed a look at him and then was si- 
 lent. 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 
 
 45
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 quietly. Behemoth was a Strephon, and he thought 
 that he had found his Chloe. 
 
 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 delib- 
 erately pressing Chloe's. 
 
 Garrison avoided a scene for the girl's sake. He 
 tapped the man on the shoulder. 
 
 "Pardon me. My seat, if you please. I left it 
 for the smoker." 
 
 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. 
 
 Garrison sat down without glancing at the girl. 
 He became absorbed in the morning paper twelve 
 hours old. 
 
 Silence ensued. The girl had understood the 
 fabrication instantly. She waited, her antagonism 
 routed, to see whether Garrison would try to take 
 
 46
 
 "How dare you insult my daughter, suh ?" 
 
 Page 4-j.
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 "Thank you," she said simply. Her voice was 
 soft and throaty. 
 
 Garrison absently raised his hat and was about 
 to resume the defunct paper when he was inter- 
 rupted. A hand reached over the back of the seat, 
 and, before he had thought of resistance, he was 
 flung violently down the aisle. 
 
 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. 
 
 "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 man- 
 ners, suh! How dare you, suh? You you con- 
 
 47
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 temptible little little snail, suh ! Snail, suh !" And 
 quite satisfied at thus selecting the most fitting 
 word, glaring fiercely and twisting his white mus- 
 tache and imperial with a very martial air, he seated 
 himself majestically by his daughter. 
 
 Garrison recognized him. He was Colonel 
 Desha, of Kentucky, whose horse, Rogue, had won 
 the Carter Handicap through Garrison's poor ri- 
 ding of the favorite, Sis. His daughter was ex- 
 postulating with him, trying to insert the true ver- 
 sion of the affair between her father's peppery ex- 
 clamations of "Occupying my seat!" "I saw him 
 raise his hat to you!" "How dare he?" "Complain 
 to the management against these outrageous flirts 1" 
 "Abominable manners!" etc., etc. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 Wa- 
 terbury's version of the affair. Public opinion, it 
 
 48
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 seemed, was with them. They had protested the 
 race. It had been thrown, and Garrison's dishonor 
 now was national. 
 
 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. 
 
 "Favorite for the Carter Handicap Poisoned," 
 was the great, staring title. The details were 
 meager; brutally meager. They were to the ef- 
 fect that some one had gained access to the Water- 
 bury stable and had fed Sis strychnin. 
 
 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. 
 
 "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." 
 
 49
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Beginning a New Life. 
 
 On arriving at the Thirty-fourth Street ferry 
 Garrison idly boarded a Forty-second Street car, 
 drifting aimlessly with the main body of Long Is- 
 land 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 wrin- 
 kles 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 Broad- 
 way is a place for presents or futures; she has no 
 welcome for pasts. With her, charity begins at 
 home and stays there. 
 
 Garrison drifted hither and thither with every 
 cross eddy of humanity, and finally dropped into 
 
 50
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 cafe 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 king- 
 pin. Now they either nodded absently or became 
 suddenly vitally interested in a show-window or the 
 new moon. 
 
 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 Han- 
 dicap. 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 hope- 
 lessly dishonored. And gentlemanly appearing 
 blackguards, who had left all honesty in the cradle, 
 now wouldn't for the world be seen talking on
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 Broadway to little Billy Garrison, the horribly 
 crooked jockey. 
 
 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 ne- 
 cessity might tend to waken his memory. For they 
 had modernized the proverb into: "A friend in 
 need is a friend to steer clear of." 
 
 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. 
 
 "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 sup-
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 pose 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." 
 
 He shivered through sheer nervous exhaustion, 
 though the night was warm for mid-April. He 
 rummaged in his pocket. 
 
 "One dollar in, bird-seed," he mused grimly, 
 counting the coins under the violet glare of a neigh- 
 boring 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." 
 
 He was standing on the corner of Twenty-fifth 
 Street, and unconsciously he turned into the cafe 
 of the Hoffman House. How well he knew its 
 every square inch! It was filled with the usual 
 sporting crowd, and Garrison entered as noncha- 
 
 53
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 lantly as if his arrival would merit the same com- 
 motion as in the long ago. He no longer cared. 
 His depression had dropped from him. The lights, 
 the atmosphere, the topics of conversation, discus- 
 sion, 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 Garri- 
 son, whose name on the turf was one to conjure 
 with. 
 
 And then, even as he had awakened from his 
 dream on Broadway, he now awoke to an apprecia- 
 tion 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. 
 
 Billy's square chin went up a point and his un- 
 der 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, in- 
 
 54
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 differently eying the shifting crowd through the 
 fluttering curtain of tobacco-smoke. 
 
 The staple subject of conversation was the Car- 
 ter 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. 
 
 He was aroused by footsteps behind him; they 
 wavered, stopped, and a large hand was laid on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Hello, kid! you here, too?" 
 
 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. Gar- 
 rison 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. 
 
 55
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "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." 
 
 "What's that to me?" spat out Billy venomously. 
 "I'm not afraid of him. No call to be." 
 
 Drake considered, the queer look still in his eyes. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "What do you mean?" Garrison's pinched face 
 had gone slowly white. A vague premonition of 
 impending further disaster possessed him, amount- 
 ing almost to an obsession. "What do you mean, 
 Jimmy?" he reiterated tensely. 
 
 Drake was silent, still scrutinizing him. 
 
 "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, 
 
 56
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 there's no deal too rotten for a man who poisons 
 a horse " 
 
 "Poisons a horse," echoed Garrison mechanically. 
 "Poisons a horse. Good Lord, Drake!" he cried 
 fiercely, in a sudden wave of passion and under- 
 standing, jumping from his chair, "you dare to say 
 that I poisoned Sis! You dare " 
 
 "No, I don't. The paper does." 
 
 "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 " 
 
 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. Sim- 
 ply his nerves had snapped; they could tortune him 
 no longer by stretching. 
 
 "It's not enough to have have her die, but I 
 must be her poisoner," he said mechanically. 
 
 57
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "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. 
 
 "I'm all right. I'm all right," muttered Billy 
 vaguely, passing a hand over his throbbing temples. 
 
 Drake was silent, fidgeting uneasily. 
 
 "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 " 
 
 "No, thanks, Jimmy." 
 
 "Don't be touchy, kid. You'd do the same for 
 
 rnp " 
 
 me 
 
 "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.
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "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." 
 
 "So-long, Jimmy. And I won't forget your 
 stand." 
 
 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! 
 
 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. 
 
 Garrison considered the issue paramount. He 
 was furious, though so seemingly indifferent. 
 
 59
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 vin- 
 dication, but for hers. He regarded her slayer as 
 a murderer, for to him Sis had been more than 
 human. 
 
 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 subse- 
 quent poisoning of the favorite. 
 
 "And I say," concluded one whose nasal twang 
 bespoke the New Englander; "I say that it was a 
 dirty race all through." 
 
 60
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "One paper hints that the stable was in on it; 
 wanted to hit the bookies hard," put in his com- 
 panion diffidently. 
 
 "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 In- 
 formation, 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 rec- 
 ord " 
 
 "Then what did you bet on him for?" asked his 
 companion mildly. 
 
 "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 
 
 61
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 through. Sis was a corker, and ought to have had 
 the race. I read all about her in the Little Falls 
 Daily Banner. 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." 
 
 Garrison slowly arose, his face white, eyes 
 smoldering. The devil was running riot through 
 him. His resentment had passed from the apa- 
 thetic stage to the fighting. So this was the world's 
 opinion of him ! Not only the world, but miserable 
 wastrals of sports who "plunged heavy" with ten 
 dollars! His name was to be bandied in their un- 
 clean 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 oppor- 
 tunity; hungry to let loose some of the resentment 
 seething within him. 
 
 The Bureau of Inside Information and his com- 
 panion looked up as Billy Garrison stood over them, 
 
 62
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 hands in pockets. Both men had been drinking. 
 Drake and half the cafe's occupants had drifted out. 
 
 "Which of you gentlemen just now gave his 
 opinion of Billy Garrison?" asked the jockey 
 quietly. 
 
 "I did, neighbor. Been roped in, too?" Inside 
 Information splayed out his legs, and, with a very 
 blase air, put his thumbs in the armholes of his ex- 
 ecrable 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. 
 
 "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 In- 
 formation a whack across the face that sent him a 
 tumbled heap on the floor. 
 
 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 under- 
 current and the brawls so prevalent there. He
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 It was two weeks later when Garrison regained 
 64
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 full consciousness; opened his eyes to gaze upon 
 blank walls, blank as the ceiling. He was in a hos- 
 pital, 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 ex- 
 citement he had undergone and finished by the 
 smash from the spirit-bottle. 
 
 . 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 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. 
 
 He was a physical, nervous wreck, and the doc- 
 tors said that he couldn't last very long, for con- 
 sumption had him. It was only a matter of time, 
 unless a miracle happened. The breath of his life
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 was going through his mouth and nostrils; the 
 breath of his lungs. 
 
 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 man- 
 aged to crawl out to the sidewalk like a wounded 
 beast striving to find its lair and fighting to die 
 game. 
 
 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 houses. 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 side- 
 walk. 
 
 A policeman had eventually found him, and with 
 the uncanny acumen of his ilk had unerringly diag- 
 nosed the case as a "drunk." From the station- 
 house to Bellevue, Garrison had gone his weary 
 way, and from there, when it was finally discovered 
 he was neither drunk nor insane, to Roosevelt Hos- 
 pital. And no one knew who or what he was, and 
 
 66
 
 Garrisons Finish 
 
 no one cared overmuch. He was simply one of the 
 many unfortunate derelicts of a great city. 
 
 It was over six months before he left the hos- 
 pital, 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." 
 
 But Garrison had not. His every faculty was 
 as acute as it ever had been. Simply, Providence 
 had drawn an impenetrable curtain over his mem- 
 ory, 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. 
 
 This oblivion may have been the manifestation 
 of an all-wise Almighty. Now, at least, he could 
 not brood over past mistakes, though, uncon- 
 sciously, 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. 
 
 67
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 From the "W. G." on his linen he understood 
 that those were his initials, but he could not inter- 
 pret 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. Per- 
 haps the "William" came to him instinctively; he 
 had no reason for choosing "Good." 
 
 Garrison left the hospital with his cough, a little 
 money the superintendent had kindly given to him, 
 and his clothes; that was all. 
 
 Handicapped as he was, harried by futile at- 
 tempts 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 expe- 
 rience, but as a raw recruit. 
 
 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 im- 
 prisoned bird to be free. Almost the first person 
 
 68
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 he met was Jimmy Drake. Garrison was about to 
 pass by, oblivious, when the other seized him by 
 the arm. 
 
 "Hello, Billy! where did you drop from " 
 
 "Pardon me, you have made a mistake." Gar- 
 rison stared coldly, blankly at Drake, shook free 
 his arm, and passed on. 
 
 "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! Was that Billy Garrison? 
 It certainly was, and yet he looked different. He's 
 changed. 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. 
 
 69
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A Ready-made Heir. 
 
 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 is 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. 
 
 He had no commercial education; nothing but 
 the savoir-faire 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. 
 
 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 news- 
 
 70
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 paper blanket, and to be awakened by the carol of 
 the touring policeman. He came to know what it 
 meant to stand in the bread-line, to go the rounds 
 of the homeless "one-night stands." 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
 7
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 happen to meet he cut unconsciously as he had once 
 cut Jimmy Drake. 
 
 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 supply- 
 ing mere necessity. 
 
 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 af- 
 forded. 
 
 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 eve 
 
 72
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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?" 
 
 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, un- 
 noticed. 
 
 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 tempera- 
 ture. 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. 
 
 This public washing was one of the many draw- 
 backs 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 
 
 73
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 whom he had noticed intently scanning the bathers 
 tapped him on the arm. 
 
 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. 
 
 "My name's Snark Theobald D. Snark," he 
 said shortly, thrusting a card into Garrison's pas- 
 sive hand. "I am an eminent lawyer, and would 
 be obliged if you would favor me with a five min- 
 utes' interview in my office American Tract 
 Building." 
 
 "Don't know you," said Garrison blandly. 
 
 "You'll like me when you do," supplemented the 
 eminent lawyer coolly. "Merely a matter of busi- 
 ness, you understand. You look as if a little busi- 
 ness wouldn't hurt you." 
 
 "Feel worse," added Billy mildly, inspecting his 
 crumpled outfit. 
 
 74
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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, home- 
 less 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 The eminent lawyer's office was in a corner of 
 the fifth shelf of the American Tract Building book- 
 case. It was unoccupied, Mr. Snark being so intel- 
 ligent as to be able to dispense with the services of 
 office-boy and stenographer; it was small but cozy. 
 
 75
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 Offices in that building can be rented for fifteen dol- 
 lars per month. 
 
 After the eminent lawyer had fortified himself 
 from a certain black bottle labeled "Poison: ex- 
 ternal use only," which sat beside the soap-dish in 
 
 \ 
 
 the little towel-cabinet, he assumed a very preoc- 
 cupied 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 "What's your name?" he asked peremptorily. 
 
 Ordinarily Garrison would have begged him to 
 go to a climate where thermometers are not in de- 
 
 76
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 mand, but now he was hungry, and wanted a job, 
 so he answered obediently : "William Good." 
 
 "Good, William," said the eminent lawyer, smi- 
 ling at himself in the little mirror of the towel- 
 cabinet. He understood that he possessed a thin 
 vein of humor. Necessary quality that for an emi- 
 nent lawyer. "And no occupation, I presume, and 
 no likelihood of one, eh?" 
 
 Garrison nodded. 
 
 "Well" and Mr. Stark made a temple of wor- 
 ship from his fat fingers, his cigar at right angles, 
 his shrewd gray eyes on the ceiling "I have a posi- 
 tion which I think you can fill. To make a long 
 story short, I have a client, a very wealthy gentle- 
 man 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. 
 
 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 rela- 
 tions with them dated back to the Settlement days. 
 
 77
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 Garrison found occasion to say he'd never heard 
 of them, and the eminent lawyer replied patroniz- 
 ingly 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. 
 
 "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." 
 
 The eminent lawyer cleared his throat eloquently 
 and relighted the athletic cigar, which had found 
 occasion to go out. 
 
 "It will be a very fine thing for this nephew," he 
 added speculatively. "Very fine, indeed. Major 
 
 78
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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? 
 
 The eminent lawyer attentively scrutinized the 
 blue streamer from his cigar. 
 
 "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 be- 
 wildered Garrison impressively by the hand. 
 
 Garrison's head swam. Then his wild dream had 
 come true! His identity had been at last discov- 
 ered! He was not the offspring of some criminal, 
 but the scion of a noble Virginia house! But Mr. 
 Snark was talking again. 
 
 "You see," he began slowly, focusing an attentive 
 79
 
 G a r r i s on' 's " Finish 
 
 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 oppor- 
 tunity 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." 
 
 Garrison's dream crumbled to ashes. 
 
 "Oh !" he said blankly, "you you mean to palm 
 me off as the nephew?" 
 
 "Exactly, my son ; the long-lost nephew. You are 
 fitted for the role. They haven't ever seen the or- 
 iginal, 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 
 haunted the baths in the chance of finding a dupli- 
 cate, for I could not afford to run the risks of ad- 
 vertising. 
 
 "It seems this nephew has a similar mark, his 
 80
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 The eminent lawyer, his calculating eye still on 
 Garrison, then proceeded with much forensic abil- 
 ity and virile imagination to lay the full beauties of 
 the "cinch" before him. 
 
 "But supposing the real nephew shows up?" asked 
 Garrison hesitatingly, after half an hour's discus- 
 sion. 
 
 "Impossible. I am fully convinced that 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 in- 
 stead of a burial. I'm sure the real nephew is dead. 
 Anyway, the search will be given up when you are 
 found." 
 
 81
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "But about identification?" 
 
 "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 advertise- 
 ment. 
 
 "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 Bat- 
 tery wouldn't sound good form. Romanticism al- 
 ways 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. 
 
 "I'll wire on that the long-lost nephew has been 
 found, and you can proceed to lie right down in 
 
 tl
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 your ready-made bed of roses. There won't be 
 any thorns. Bit of a step up from municipal lodg- 
 ing-houses, eh?" 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 He had even reached the point where he saw in 
 the future himself confessing the deception; saw
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 sub- 
 terfuge. And perhaps, as Snark had acutely pointed 
 out, he might be a better nephew than the original. 
 He would be. 
 
 When a man begins to compromise with dishon- 
 esty, there is only one outcome. Garrison's rag of 
 honor was hauled down. He agreed to the decep- 
 tion. He would play the role of William C. Dag- 
 get, the lost nephew. 
 
 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, sup- 
 plying 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 
 
 84
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 "Son," said the eminent lawyer dreamily, care- 
 fully placing the momentous wire in his pocket, "a 
 good deed never goes unrewarded. Always re- 
 member 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." 
 
 "To the long-lost nephew, Mr. William C. Dag- 
 get. To the bed of roses. And to the eminent law- 
 yer, Theobald D. Snark, Esq., who has mended a 
 poor fortune with a better brain. Gentlemen," he 
 concluded grandiloquently, slowly surveying the lit- 
 tle 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, gen- 
 
 85
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 tlemen." And so saying, Mr. Snark gravely tilted 
 the black bottle ceilingward. 
 
 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 diffi- 
 cult 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 awa- 
 kened 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. 
 
 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 exceeding pleasant 
 it was. To go back to rags and the hunger cancer 
 
 86
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 and homelessness would be hard ; very hard even if 
 honor stood at the other end. 
 
 "There they are the major and his wife," whis- 
 pered 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 fash- 
 ion: "I'm so glad to see you, dear. You've your
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 mother's own eyes. You know she and I were 
 chums." 
 
 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. 
 
 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 suc- 
 cessfully grapple with consumption. 
 
 Garrison was in the rear seat of the phaeton with 
 Mrs. Calvert, mechanically answering questions, 
 
 88
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 giving chapters of his fictitious life, while she re- 
 garded 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 bol- 
 stering 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 thou- 
 sand, 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. 
 
 Garrison's inattention was suddenly swept away 
 by the clatter of hoofs audible above the noise con- 
 tributed by the bays. A horse, which Garrison in- 
 stinctively, 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, re- 
 turned the hail. 
 
 89
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "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." 
 
 Garrison made some absent-minded, commonplace 
 answer. His eyes were kindling strangely as he 
 watched the oncoming filly. His blood was surg- 
 ing through him. Unconsciously, his hands became 
 ravenous for the reins. A vague memory was stir- 
 ring 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 intro- 
 duced her. 
 
 She was a slim girl, with a wealth of indefinite 
 hair, now gold, now bronze, and she regarded Gar- 
 rison with a pair of very steady gray eyes. Beauti- 
 ful eyes they were; and, as she pulled off her gaunt- 
 let 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 be- 
 
 90
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 fore? 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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "The honor is mine," returned Garrison mechan- 
 ically, as he replaced his hat. Where had he heard 
 that throaty voice?
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Also a Ready-made Husband. 
 
 A week had passed a week of new life for Gar- 
 rison, such as he had never dreamed of living. Even 
 in the heyday of his fame, forgotten by him, unlim- 
 ited 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 oc- 
 cupancy, and at times he had difficulty in realizing 
 that he had won it through deception, not by right 
 of blood. 
 
 The prognostications of the eminent lawyer, Mr. 
 Snark, to the effect that everything would be sur- 
 prisingly easy, were fully realized. To the major 
 and his wife the birthmark of the spur was convin- 
 cing proof ; and, if more were needed, the thorough 
 coaching of Snark was sufficient. 
 
 More than that, a week had not passed before it 
 was made patently apparent to Garrison, much to his
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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 premier 
 jockey, whom he had frequently seen ride. 
 
 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 serv- 
 ices of the family doctor, were fighting the consump- 
 tion 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 tubercu- 
 losis germ was clutching at Garrison's lungs. 
 
 "You've gone the pace, young man," said the ven- 
 erable family doctor, tapping his patient with the 
 
 93
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 stethoscope. "Gone the pace, and now nature is 
 clamoring for her long-deferred payment." 
 
 The major was present, and Garrison felt the hot 
 blood surge to his face, as the former's eyes were 
 riveted upon him. 
 
 "Youth is a prodigal spendthrift," put in the 
 major sadly. "But isn't it hereditary, doctor ? Per- 
 haps the seed was cultivated, not sown, eh ?" 
 
 "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 to- 
 bacco smoke through a handkerchief ? Yes ? Well, 
 it leaves a dark-brown stain, doesn't it? That's 
 what your lungs are like coated with nicotin. Your 
 wind is gone. That is why cigarettes are so injuri- 
 ous. 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 
 
 94
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 fresh air. Then, your vitality is nearly bankrupt. 
 You've made an old curiosity-shop out of your stom- 
 ach. You require regular sleep tons of it " 
 
 "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 " 
 
 "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 stom- 
 ach ! 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." 
 
 Subsequently, Major Calvert had, for him, a 
 serious conversation with Garrison. 
 
 "I believe in youth having its fling," he said 
 kindly, in conclusion ; "but I don't believe in flinging 
 
 95
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 so far that you cannot retrench safely. From Doc- 
 tor Blandly's statements, you seem to have come 
 mighty near exceeding the speed limit, my boy." 
 
 He bent his white brows and regarded Garrison 
 steadily out of his keen eyes, in which lurked a fund 
 of potential understanding. 
 
 "But sorrow," he continued, "acts on different na- 
 tures 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 al- 
 ready discussed these subjects, and I am only touch- 
 ing 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 for- 
 get that past life of yours, my boy, for you are to 
 be my heir; to be worthy of the name of Calvert, 
 
 96
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 And Garrison had been silent. He was in a men- 
 tal 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. 
 
 He was commencing to see his deception in its 
 true light; the crime he was daily, hourly, commit- 
 ting against his host and hostess; against all de- 
 cency. 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 
 
 97
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 proceeds of the rank fraud Major Calvert's check 
 for ten thousand dollars. 
 
 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 neigh- 
 bor ; 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 mone- 
 tary benefits, present or future. He lived in the 
 present, for the hour, oblivious to everything. 
 
 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 un- 
 derstood 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. 
 
 The second time he had seen her was the 
 98
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 following his arrival, and when he had started on 
 Doctor Blandly's open-air treatment 
 
 "I'll have a partner over to put you through your 
 paces at tennis," Mrs. Calvert had said, a quiet 
 twinkle in her eye. And shortly afterward, as Gar- 
 rison was aimlessly batting the balls about, feeling 
 very much like an overgrown schoolboy, Sue Desha 
 tennis-racket in hand, had come up the drive. 
 
 She was bareheaded, dressed in a blue sailor cos- 
 tume, her sleeves rolled high on her firm, tanned 
 arms. She looked very businesslike, and was, as 
 Garrison very soon discovered. 
 
 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 ear- 
 nest attention of an expert, and Garrison hardly 
 knew where a racket began or ended. 
 
 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- 
 
 99
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 tree, and then the girl insisted upon Garrison resum- 
 ing his coat. They were like two children. 
 
 "You'll get cold; you're not strong," said the girl 
 finally, with the manner of a very old and experi- 
 enced mother. She was four years younger than 
 Garrison. "Put it on ; you re not strong. That's 
 right. Always obey." 
 
 "I am strong," persisted Garrison, flushing. He 
 felt very like a schoolboy. 
 
 The girl eyed him critically, calmly. 
 
 "Oh, but you're not; not a little bit. Do you 
 know you're very very rickety? Very rickety, 
 indeed." 
 
 Garrison eyed his flannels in visible perturbation. 
 They flapped about his thin, wiry shanks most dis- 
 agreeably. He was painfully conscious of his el- 
 bows, of his thin chest. Painfully conscious that 
 the girl was physical perfection, he a parody of 
 manhood. He looked up, with a smile, and met the 
 girl's frank eyes. 
 
 "I think rickety is just the word," he agreed, 
 spanning a wrist with a finger and thumb. 
 
 IOO
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "You cannot play tennis, can you?" asked the 
 girl dryly. "Not a little, tiny bit." 
 
 "No; not a little bit." 
 
 "Golf?" Head on one side. 
 
 "Not guilty." 
 
 "Swim?" 
 
 "Gloriously. Like a stone." 
 
 "Run?" Head on the other side. 
 
 "If there's any one after me." 
 
 "Ride? Every one rides down this-away, you 
 know." 
 
 A sudden vague passion mouthed at Garrison's 
 heart. "Ride?" he echoed, eyes far away. "I I 
 think so." 
 
 "Only think so! Humph!" She swung a rest- 
 less foot. "Can't you do anything?" 
 
 "Well," critically, "I think I can eat, and 
 sleep " 
 
 "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 ex- 
 
 101
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 claimed, in dismay. "Why, you could wear my 
 glove, I believe." There was one part disdain to 
 three parts amusement, ridicule, in her throaty voice. 
 
 "It is small," admitted Garrison, eying it rue- 
 fully. "I wish I had thought of asking mother to 
 give me a bigger one. Is it a crime?" 
 
 "No; a calamity." Her foot was going restlessly. 
 "I like your eyes," she said calmly, at length. 
 
 Garrison bowed. He was feeling decidedly un- 
 comfortable. He had never met a girl like this. 
 Nothing seemed sacred to her. She was as frank 
 as the wind, or sun. 
 
 "You know," she continued, her great eyes half- 
 closed, "I was awfully anxious to see you when I 
 heard you were coming home " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 She turned and faced him, her gray eyes opened 
 wide. "Why? Isn't one always interested in one's 
 future husband?" 
 
 It was Garrison who was confused. Something 
 caught at his throat. He stammered, but words 
 iwould not come. He laughed nervously. 
 
 IO2
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "Didn't you know we were engaged?" asked the 
 girl, with childlike simplicity and astonishment. 
 "Oh, yes. How superb!" 
 
 "Engaged ? Why why " 
 
 "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 
 not you just wild with delight?" 
 
 "But but," expostulated Garrison, his face 
 white, "supposing the real ne I mean, suppos- 
 ing I had not come home? Supposing I had been 
 dead?" 
 
 "Why, then," she replied calmly, "then, I sup- 
 pose, 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 ad libitum. Mes condolences. 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." 
 
 103
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 Garrison was silent, staring with hard eyes at the 
 ground. He could not begin to analyze his 
 thoughts. 
 
 "You are not complimentary, at all events," he 
 said quietly at length. 
 
 "So every one tells me," she sighed. 
 
 "I did not know of this arrangement," he added, 
 looking up, a queer smile twisting his lips. 
 
 "And now you are lonesomely miserable, like I 
 am," she rejoined, crossing a restless leg. "No 
 doubt you have left your ideal in New York. Per- 
 haps you are married already. Are you?" she cried 
 eagerly, seizing his arm. 
 
 "No such good luck for you," he added, under 
 his breath. 
 
 "I thought so," she sighed resignedly. "Of 
 course no one would have you. It's hopeless." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Oh, don't 'get so fussy!" she interrupted petu- 
 104
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 lantly. "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." 
 
 "And then I turned up a little, under-sized, 
 nothingless pea, instead of the regular patented, 
 double-action, stalwart Adonis of your imagina- 
 tion," added Garrison dryly. 
 
 "How well you describe yourself !" said the girl 
 admiringly. 
 
 "It must be horrible !" he condoled half -cynically. 
 
 "And of course you, too, were horribly disap- 
 105
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 pointed?" she added, after a moment's pause, tap- 
 ping her oxford with tennis-racket. 
 
 Garrison turned and deliberately looked into her 
 gray eyes. 
 
 "Yes; I am horribly," he lied calmly. "My 
 ideal is the dark, quiet girl of the clinging type." 
 
 "She wouldn't have much to cling to," sniffed 
 the girl. "We'll be miserable together, then. Do 
 you know, I almost hate youl I think I do. I'm 
 quite sure I do." 
 
 Garrison eyed her in silence, the smile on his 
 lips She returned the look, her face flushed* 
 
 "Miss Desha " 
 
 "You'll have to call me Sue. You're Billy; I'm 
 Sue. That's one of the minor penalties. Our pre- 
 natal engagement affords us this charming familiar- 
 ity," she interrupted scathingly. 
 
 "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, 
 
 106
 
 Garrisons Finish 
 
 if you wish. If you loved, this burlesque engage- 
 ment should not stand in your way. You would 
 elope with the man you love, and let property and 
 parents' blessings " 
 
 "That would be a good way for you to get out of 
 the muddle unscatched, 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 Yan- 
 kees cold-blooded icicles !" 
 
 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." 
 
 "Then your dark, clinging girl is lacking in the 
 very virtues you find so wofully missing in me. She 
 won't take a risk. I cannot say I blame her," she 
 added, scanning the brooding Garrison. 
 
 He laughed good-hmoredly. "How you must de- 
 test me! But cheer up, my sister in misery! You 
 will marry the man you love, all right. Never 
 fear." 
 
 "Will I?" she asked enigmatically. Her eyes 
 
 107
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 were half-shut, watching Garrison's profile. "Will 
 I, soothsayer?" 
 
 He nodded comprehensively, bitterly. 
 
 "You will. One of the equations of the problem 
 will be eliminated, and thus will be found the an- 
 swer." 
 
 "Which?" she asked softly, heel tapping gravel. 
 
 "The unnecessary one, of course. Isn't it always 
 the unnecessary one?" 
 
 "You mean," she said slowly, "that you will go 
 away?" 
 
 Garrison nodded. 
 
 "Of course," she added, after a pause, "the dark, 
 clinging girl is waiting?" 
 
 "Of course," he bantered. 
 
 "It must be nice to be loved like that." Her 
 eyes were wide and far away. "To have one re- 
 nounce relatives, position, wealth all, for love. 
 It must be very nice, indeed." 
 
 Still, Garrison was silent. He had cause to be. 
 
 "Do you think it is right, fair," continued the girl 
 slowly, her brow wrinkled speculatively, "to break 
 
 1 08
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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?" 
 
 "I believe the Bible says to leave all and cleave 
 unto your wife," returned Garrison. 
 
 "Yes. But not your intended wife." 
 
 "But, you see, she is of the cleaving type." 
 
 "And why this hurry? Aren't you depriving 
 your uncle and aunt unnecessarily early?" 
 
 "But it is the only answer, as you pointed out. 
 You then would be free." 
 
 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. 
 
 If he could have laid hands upon that eminent 
 lawyer, Mr. Snark, he would have wrung his accom- 
 plished neck to the best of his ability. He, Snark, 
 
 109
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 al- 
 ways been looking into the depths of those great 
 gray eyes. . They were part of a dream, the focus- 
 ing-point of the misty past forever out of focus. 
 
 The girl had been considering his answer, and 
 now she spoke. 
 
 "Of course," she said gravely, "you are not sin- 
 cere when you say your primal reason for leaving 
 would be in order to set me free. Of course you 
 are not sincere." 
 
 "Is insincerity necessarily added to my numerous 
 physical infirmities?" he bantered. 
 
 "Not necessarily. But there is always the love 
 to make a virtue of necessity especially when 
 there's some one waiting on necessity." 
 
 "But did I say that would be my primal reason 
 110
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 for leaving setting you free? I thought I merely 
 stated it as one of the following blessings attendant 
 on virtue." 
 
 "Equivocation means that you were not sincere. 
 Why don't you go, then?" 
 
 "Eh?" Garrison looked up sharply at the tone 
 of her voice. 
 
 "Why don't you go? Hurry up! Reward the 
 clinging girl and set me free." 
 
 "Is there such a hurry ? Won't you let me ferret 
 out a pair of pajamas, to say nothing of good-bys?" 
 
 "How silly you are!" she said coldly, rising. 
 "The question, then, rests entirely with you. When- 
 ever you make up your mind to go " 
 
 "Couldn't we let it hang fire indefinitely? Per- 
 haps 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. 
 
 Miss Desha returned his look steadily. "And the 
 other girl the clinging one?" she asked calmly. 
 
 "Oh, she could wait. If we didn't hit it off, I 
 ill
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 could fall back on her. I would hate to be an old 
 bachelor." 
 
 "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." 
 
 Garrison rose slowly. 
 
 112
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 "You're Billy Garrison." 
 
 "And what is a cad?" he asked abstractedly. 
 
 "One who shames his birth and position by his 
 breeding." 
 
 "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 " 
 
 "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." 
 
 Here Mrs. Calvert made her appearance, with a 
 book and sunshade. She was a woman whom a 
 sunshade completed. 
 
 "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 ten- 
 
 "3
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 nis-court. Really, you play a wretched game, Will- 
 iam." 
 
 "So I have been informed," replied Garrison. "It 
 is quite a relief to have so many people agree with 
 me for once." 
 
 "In this instance you can believe them," com- 
 mented the girl. She turned to Mrs. Calvert. 
 "Whose ravings are you going to listen to now?" 
 she asked, taking the book Mrs. Calvert carried. 
 
 "A matter of duty," laughed the elder 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." 
 
 "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! Ken- 
 
 114
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 tucky's pride! And here's Sis. Remember Sis? 
 The Carter Handicap " 
 
 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. 
 
 "I I that is why, yes, of course," he mur- 
 mured vaguely. "May I see it?" 
 
 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. 
 
 "I I think I've seen her," he said, at length, 
 looking up vacantly. "Somehow, she seems fa- 
 miliar." 
 
 Again he fell to studying the graceful lines of 
 the thoroughbred, oblivious of his audience. 
 
 "She is a Southern horse," commented Mrs. Cal- 
 vert. "Rather, she was. Of course you-all heard 
 of her poisoning? It never said whether she re- 
 covered. Do you know ?" 
 
 Garrison glanced up quickly, and met Sue Desha's 
 unwavering stare.
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "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. 
 
 "You look as if you had seen a ghost," laughed 
 Sue, her eyes on the magnolia-tree. 
 
 He laughed somewhat nervously. "I I've been 
 thinking." 
 
 "Is the major going in for the Carter this year?" 
 asked the girl, turning to Mrs. Calvert. "Who will 
 he run Dixie?" 
 
 "I think so. She is the logical choice." Mrs. Cal- 
 vert was nervously prodding the gravel with her 
 sunshade. "Sometimes I wish he would give up 
 all ideas of it." 
 
 "I think father is responsible for that. Since 
 Rogue won the last Carter, father is horse-mad, 
 and has infected all his neighbors." 
 
 "Then it will be friend against friend," laughed 
 Mrs. Calvert. "For, of course, the colonel will run 
 Rogue again this year " 
 
 "I I don't think so." The girl's face was sober. 
 "That is," she added hastily, "I don't know. Father 
 
 1 16
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 "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. Water- 
 bury you were speaking of?" 
 
 The girl nodded. There was silence, each mem- 
 ber of the trio evidently engrossed with thoughts 
 that were of moment. 
 
 Mrs. Calvert was idly thumbing over the race- 
 track annual. "Here is a page torn out," she ob- 
 served 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 Gar- 
 rison! Remember him? What a brilliant career 
 he had ! One never hears of him nowadays. I won- 
 der what became of him?" 
 
 117
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "Billy Garrison?" echoed Garrison slowly. "Why 
 I I think I've heard of him " 
 
 He was cut short by a laugh from the girl. "Oh, 
 you're good! Why, his name used to be a house- 
 hold word. You should have heard it. But, then, 
 I don't suppose you ever went to the track. Those 
 who do don't forget." 
 
 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 recom- 
 mend an excellent teacher in Sue. Good-by, and 
 don't get thrown." 
 
 "Are you willing?" asked the girl curiously. 
 
 Garrison's heart was pounding strangely. His 
 mouth was dry. "Yes, yes," he said eagerly. 
 
 The tight- faced cockney, Crimmins, was in the 
 stable when Garrison, in riding-breeches, puttee leg- 
 
 110
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 gings, 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 why 
 they should keep recurring with such maddening 
 persistency. And yet how familiar they all seemed ! 
 
 Crimmins eyed him askance as he entered. 
 
 "Coin' for a canter, sir? Ho, yuss; this 'ere is 
 the 'orse the marster 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." 
 
 Crimmins shifted his cud with great satisfaction 
 at this uninterrupted flow of loquacity and biilliant 
 humor. Garrison was looking the animal over in- 
 stinctively, his hands running from hock to withers 
 and back again. 
 
 "How old is he?" he asked absently. 
 
 "Three years, sir. Ho, yuss. Thoroughbred. 
 Cast-off from the Duryea stable. By Sysonby out 
 
 119
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 of Hamburg Belle. Won the Brighton Beach over- 
 night sweepstakes in nineteen an' four. Ho, yuss. 
 Just a little off his oats, but a bloomin' good 'orse." 
 
 Garrison turned, speaking mechanically. "I won- 
 der 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?" 
 
 Crimmins shifted the cud again to hide his as- 
 tonishment at Garrison's sudden savoir-faire. 
 
 "She's wicked, sir. Bought for the missus, but 
 she ain't broken yet." 
 
 "She hasn't been handled right. Her mouth's 
 hard, but her temper's even. I'll ride her," said 
 Garrison shortly. 
 
 1 20
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "Have to wear blinkers, sir." 
 
 "No, I wont. Saddle her. Hurry up. Shorten 
 the stirrup. There, that's right. Stand clear." 
 
 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. 
 
 The filly quivered for a moment, laid back her 
 ears, and then was off. 
 
 "Gripes!" ejaculated the veracious Crimmins, as 
 wide-eyed he watched the filly fling gravel down the 
 drive, " '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 !" 
 
 Moralizing on the deceptiveness of appearances,
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 Crimmins fortified himself with another slab of cut- 
 plug. 
 
 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. 
 
 "Do you know that you're riding Midge, and that 
 she's a hard case?" she said ironically, as they can- 
 tered off together. "I'll bet you're thrown. Is she 
 the horse the major reserved for you? Surely 
 not." 
 
 "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." 
 
 The girl was silent, eying him steadily through 
 narrowed lids. 
 
 "You've never ridden before?" 
 
 "Um-m-m," said Garrison; "why, yes, I suppose 
 so." He laughed in sudden joy. "It feels so good," 
 he confided. 
 
 "You remind me of a person in a dream," she 
 said, after a little, still watching him closely. 
 
 122
 
 The girl's laugh floated tantalizingly over his shoulder. 
 
 Page
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "Nothing seems real to you your past, I mean. 
 You only think you have done this and that." 
 
 He was silent, biting his lip. 
 
 "Come on, I'll race you," she cried suddenly. "To 
 that big poplar down there. See it? About two 
 furlongs. I'll give yod twenty yards' start. Don't 
 fall off." 
 
 "I gave, never took, handicaps." The words 
 came involuntarily to (Garrison's surprise. "Come 
 on; even up," he added hurriedly. "Ready?" 
 
 "Yes. Let her out." 
 
 The big bay gelding was off first, with the lohg, 
 heart-breaking stride that eats up the ground. The 
 girl's laugh floated back tantalizingly over her shoul- 
 der. 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. 
 
 "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 Gar- 
 rison at the quarter minute; atld like a. lohg, black
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 under- 
 stand. 
 
 "Could I have been a jockey once?" he kept ask- 
 ing himself over and over. "I wonder could I have 
 been! I wonder!" 
 
 The next moment the gelding had ranged up 
 alongside. 
 
 "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 drive. We were even up on weight." 
 
 "And so you think I cannot ride properly!" said 
 the girl quietly, arranging her wind-blown hair. 
 
 "Oh, yes. But women can't really ride class, you 
 know. It isn't in them." 
 
 124
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 She laughed a little. "I'm satisfied now. You 
 know I was at the Carter Handicap last year." 
 
 "Yes?" said Garrison, unmoved. He met her 
 eyes fairly. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "Indeed ?" murmured Garrison, with but indiffer- 
 ent interest. 
 
 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." 
 
 "Oh, did he?" 
 
 "Yes. And, do you know, his seat was identical 
 .with yours?" She turned and eyed him steadily. 
 
 "I'm flattered." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Oh, well," observed Garrison, "I dare say any 
 number of girls loved Billy Garrison. Popular idol, 
 you know "
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "I dare say," she echoed dryly. "Possibly the 
 dark, clinging kind." 
 
 He eyed her wonderingly, but she was looking 
 very innocently at a peregrinating chipmunk. 
 
 "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 mo- 
 ment 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. 
 
 "Why some long-lost girl-chum, I suppose," 
 said Garrison candidly. 
 
 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 an- 
 noyed 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 ad- 
 
 126
 
 Garrisons Finish 
 
 vantage of his courtesy in the least, And then 
 guess what happened." Still her eyes held his. 
 
 "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 ?" 
 
 "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." 
 
 "That must have been a little bit tough on Garri- 
 son, eh?" laughed Garrison idly. "Now that you 
 mention it, it seems as if I had heard it." 
 
 "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 name at a 
 great rate. "It was all a mistake, of course. I 
 wonder I wonder if if he held it against me I" 
 
 "Oh, very likely he's forgotten all about it long 
 ago," said Garrison cheerfully. 
 
 She bit her lip and was silent. "I wonder," she
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 resumed, at length, "if he would like me to apolo- 
 gize and thank him " She broke off, glancing 
 
 at him shyly. 
 
 "Oh, well, you never met him again, did you?" 
 asked Garrison. "So what does it matter? Merely 
 an incident." 
 
 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 !" 
 
 "Meaning?" he asked absently. 
 
 She tapped her lips with the palm of her little 
 gauntlet. 
 
 "That I think you are absurd." 
 
 "I?" He started. "How? Why? I don't un- 
 derstand. What have I done now?" 
 
 "Nothing.. That's just it." 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 "No? Um-m-m, of course it is your secret. I 
 am not trying to force a confidence. You have your 
 
 128
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 "I don't understand a word not a syllable," said 
 Garrison restlessly. "What is it all about?" 
 
 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." 
 
 "I don't see the moral to the parable." He shook 
 his head hopelessly. 
 
 "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? 
 
 129
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 Car- 
 ter Handicap affair. As if we didn't know you 
 always rode as straight as a string." Her cheeks 
 were flushed, her eyes flashing. 
 
 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. 
 
 "No, you're wrong. It's a case of mistaken iden- 
 tity. I am not Garrison." 
 
 Her gray eyes bored into his. "You really mean 
 that Eilly:?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "On your word of honor? By everything 
 you hold most sacred? Take your time in an- 
 swering." 
 
 "It wouldn't matter if I waited till the resurrec- 
 tion. I can't change myself. I'm not Garrison. 
 
 130
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 Faith of a gentleman, I'm not. Honestly, Sue/' 
 He laughed a little nervously. 
 
 Again her gray eyes searched his. She sighed. 
 "Of course I take your word." 
 
 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 G-.rrison. The face 
 was more youthful, care- free. Otherwise it was a 
 fair likeness. 
 
 "You'll admit it looks somewhat like you," said 
 Sue, with great dryness. 
 
 Garrison studied it long and carefully. "Yes 
 I do," he murmured, in a perplexed tone. "A dou- 
 ble. Funny, isn't it ? Where did you get it ?" She 
 laughed a little, flushing. 
 
 "I was silly enough to think you were one and 
 the same, and that you wished to conceal your iden- 
 tity from your relatives. So I made occasion to 
 steal it from the book your aunt was about to read. 
 
 131
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 Remember? It was the leaf she thought the major 
 had abstracted." 
 
 "I must thank you for your kindness, even though 
 it went astray. May I have it?" 
 
 "Ye-es. And you are sure you are not the 
 original ?" 
 
 "I haven't the slightest recollection of being Billy 
 Garrison," reiterated Billy Garrison, wearily and 
 truthfully. 
 
 The ride home was mostly one of silence. Both 
 were thinking. As they came within sight of Cal- 
 vert House the girl turned to him: 
 
 "There is one thing you can do ride. Like 
 glory. Where did you more than learn?" 
 
 "Must have been born with me." 
 
 "What's bred in the bone will come out in the 
 blood," she quoted enigmatically. She was smi- 
 ling in a way that made Garrison vaguely uncom- 
 fortable. 
 
 132
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Snark Shows His Fangs. 
 
 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 im- 
 agination. 
 
 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, some- 
 where 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. 
 
 "If I was Garrison, whoever he was, I wonder 
 133
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 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 restrospect, 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. 
 
 "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 Gar- 
 rison 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 
 
 154
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 me. Haven't I any parents or relatives real rela- 
 tives, not the ones I am imposing on?" 
 
 He sat on the bed endeavoring to recall some of 
 his past life; even the faintest gleam. Then ab- 
 sently he turned over the photograph he held. On 
 the reserve side of the leaf was the record of Billy 
 Garrison. Garrison studied it eagerly. 
 
 "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' 
 
 135
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 say the real Billy Garrison has disappeared. That's 
 funny, too." 
 
 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 re-~ 
 member. I'm in a fog. He ought to know Garri- 
 son. 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 no- 
 body to boot." 
 
 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 culti- 
 vation 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 136
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 men- 
 tioned "women" last. 
 
 "Just look at Rogue and my daughter, Sue, suh," 
 he was wont to say with pardonable pride. "Thor- 
 oughbreds both, suh." 
 
 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 al- 
 ways ran second to Colonel Desha's first. 
 
 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 
 
 137
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 Dixie, a three-year-old filly whom he had recently 
 purchased, showed unmistakable evidences of win- 
 ning 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. 
 
 "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 cap- 
 ture again. I'm sure Dixie can give Rogue five sec- 
 onds 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 sec- 
 onds. He has a knack of going from better to, 
 best." 
 
 Now Major Calvert glanced up with a smile as 
 Garrison entered. 
 
 3*
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "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 exag- 
 gerates, 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." 
 
 "Oh, I merely know a horse's tail from his head," 
 laughed Garrison indifferently. "Speaking of Gar- 
 rison, did you ever see him ride, major?" 
 
 "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 any- 
 thing I've left undone " 
 
 "You've been more than kind," blurted out Gar- 
 rison uncomfortably. "More than good uncle." 
 He was hating himself. He could not meet the 
 major's kindly eyes. 
 
 "Tut, tut, my boy, no fine speeches. Apropos of
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 "Oh," said Garrison slowly. "And who is this 
 Garrison riding for now ?" 
 
 "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 in- 
 terest 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. 
 
 "Then you don't know anything about this Garri- 
 son?" persisted Garrison slowly. 
 
 "Nothing more than I've said. He was a first- 
 140
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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, un- 
 less 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 colo- 
 nel's other thoroughbred ? I mean Miss Desha ?" 
 
 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. 
 
 "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 
 
 141
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 us a chick probably we would have neglected Him 
 for it. We love children. So we've cottoned all 
 the more to Sue." 
 
 "I understand that Sue and I are intended for 
 each other," observed Garrison, a half-cynical smile 
 at his lips. 
 
 "God bless my soul! how did you guess?" 
 
 "Why, she said so." 
 
 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?" 
 
 "No, she doesn't," replied Garrison quietly. 
 
 "Tell you as much, eh?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 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 
 
 142
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 to give her hand where her heart isn't. She likes 
 you. It remains with you to make her love you." 
 
 "And that's impossible," added Garrison grimly 
 to himself. "If she only knew! Love? Lord!" 
 
 "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 acci- 
 dent." He opened the desk-drawer and handed 
 a square envelope to Garrison, who took it mechan- 
 ically. "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." 
 
 "I think it's merely a business letter," replied 
 Garrison indifferently, hiding his burning curiosity. 
 He did not know who his correspondent could pos- 
 sibly 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. 
 
 43
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "BELpvED IMPOSTOR: 'Ars longa, vita brevis' 
 as the philosopher has truly said, which in the Eng- 
 lish 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 in- 
 come. 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 fol- 
 lowing mail. He will be glad to indulge the sport- 
 ing blood of youth. If I cannot share the bed of 
 roses, I can at least fatten on the smell. I would 
 hate 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, re- 
 member, silence is golden. If you feel any inclina- 
 tion 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." 
 
 The letter was unsigned, typewritten, and on plain 
 144
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 paper. But Garrison knew whom it was from. It 
 was the eminent lawyer's way not to place dama- 
 ging evidence in the hands of a prospective enemy. 
 "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." 
 
 145
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The Colonel's Confession. 
 
 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. 
 
 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?
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 cer- 
 tainty of a small fortune, for the sake of over- 
 working a tool that might either snap in his hand 
 or cut both ways. So Garrison decided to disre- 
 gard the letter. 
 
 But with Waterbury it was a different proposi- 
 tion. 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 Cal- 
 vert's accounts they had not been, that fact would 
 not prevent Waterbury divulging the rank fraud 
 Garrison was perpetrating. 
 
 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 pos- 
 sible. He clung fiercely, with the fierce tenacity of 
 
 147
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 despair, to his present life. He could not renounce 
 it all not yet. 
 
 Two hopes, secreted in his inner consciousness, 
 supported indecesion. 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 coin- 
 cidence only said that he was, and a very small 
 modicum of coincidence at that. This fact, if true, 
 would cry his present panic groundless. 
 
 On the head of conscience, Garrison did not 
 touch. He smothered it. All that, he forced him- 
 self to sense was that he was "living like a white 
 man for once"; loving as he never thought he 
 could love. 
 
 The reverse, unsightly side of the picture he 
 would not so much as glance at. Time enough when 
 he would be compelled to. Time enough when he 
 was again flung out on that merciless, unrecog- 
 nizing world he had come to loathe; loathe and 
 'dread. When that., time came it would taste ex- 
 ceeding bitter in his mouth. All the more reason, 
 
 148
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 then, to let the present furnish sweet food for 
 retrospect; food that would offset the aloes of 
 retribution. Thus Garrison philosophized. 
 
 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 if was hopeless, absurd. He 
 was not injuring her. He was the moth, she the 
 flame. He did not realize that the moth can ex- 
 tinguish the candle. 
 
 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 condi- 
 tion 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. 
 
 And even as Garrison was fighting out the night 
 149
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 with his sleepless thoughts, Sue Desha was in the 
 same restless condition. Mr. Waterbury had ar- 
 rived. 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. 
 
 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 cer- 
 tain gutter marks in his speech, person, and man- 
 ner. That such an inmate should eat above the 
 salt in Colonel Desha's home was a painful ac- 
 knowledgment of the weight of necessity. 
 
 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 
 
 150
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 of social introduction or elevation through kinship 
 in the other. 
 
 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 him- 
 self : "She was a spanking filly, of good stock, and 
 with good straight legs." 
 
 His sincere desire to "butt into the Desha family" 
 he kept for the moment to himself. But as a pre- 
 liminary 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. 
 
 Perhaps now the colonel was considering those 
 reasons. His room was next that of his daughter, 
 and in her listening wake fulness 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 monoto- 
 nous pad, pad of list slippers made themselves ap- 
 parent. 
 
 Sue threw on a dressing-gown and entered her
 
 G a r r i s o*n s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 "I can't sleep," said the girl simply. She cud- 
 dled in a big armchair, her feet tucked under her. 
 
 He put a hand on her shoulder. "I can't, either," 
 he said, and laughed a little, as if incapable of un- 
 derstanding the reason. "I think late eating doesn't 
 agree with me. It must have been the deviled crab." 
 
 "Mr. Waterbury?" suggested Sue. 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "Yes when you recognize that I have." She 
 pressed her cheek against the hand on her shoulder. 
 
 Sue practically managed the entire house, look- 
 ing 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. 
 
 This was one of but many defects in his vision. 
 152
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 pro- 
 vider," but that virtue had not descended from 
 father to son. The original vast Desha estates de- 
 creased 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 tem- 
 porarily increased the primal funds, but more often 
 the opposite was the case. 
 
 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. 
 
 What the original estate was, or to what extent 
 the colonel had encroached upon it, Sue never 
 
 153
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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 him- 
 self 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. 
 
 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 
 
 154
 
 Garrisons Finish 
 
 work for the pleasures and woman has to cringe 
 for the scraps. It may seem unchivalrous, but true 
 nevertheless. 
 
 Only Sue knew how she compelled one dollar 
 to bravely do the duties 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. 
 
 The colonel recommenced his pacing. Sue, hands 
 clasped around knees, watched him with steady, un- 
 winking eyes. 
 
 "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." 
 
 Colonel Desha vaguely passed a hand through 
 his hair, then, mechanically yielding to the superior 
 
 155
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 strength and self-control of his daughter, eased 
 himself into an opposite armchair. 
 
 "Oh, no, you're quite wrong, 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 jar- 
 gon of the turf. The dam of his mind had given 
 way, and a flood of thoughts, hopes, fears came 
 rioting forth unchecked, unthinkingly. 
 
 His eyes were vacant, a frown dividing his white 
 brows, the thin hand on the table closing and re- 
 laxing. He was not talking to his daughter, but 
 to his conscience. It was the old threadbare, tat- 
 tered tale spawn of the Goddess Fortune; a thing 
 of misbegotten hopes and desires. 
 
 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 
 
 156
 
 Garrisons Finish 
 
 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 own- 
 ers ; that a plunger comes out on top once in a mil- 
 lion times. That the track, to live, must bleed 
 "suckers" by the thousand, and that he, Colonel 
 Desha, was one of the bled. 
 
 He was on the wrong side of the table. The 
 Metropolitan, Brooklyn, Suburban, Brighton, Fu- 
 turity, 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 Ken- 
 tucky 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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 Sue knelt down and raised his head. 
 157
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "Daddy, is that all?" she asked steadily. 
 
 He did not answer. Then, man as he was, the 
 blood came sweeping to face and neck. 
 
 "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 " 
 
 "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 laid 
 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. 
 
 Sue's face was averted, eyes on floor, hands 
 158
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 tensely clasping those of her father. Absolute still- 
 ness held the room. The colonel was staring at 
 the girl's bent head. 
 
 "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 " 
 
 "Of course, daddy," agreed Sue slowly, wide- 
 eyed. "I'm only a child. I don't understand." 
 
 But she understood more than her father. She 
 was thinking of Billy Garrison. 
 
 159
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A Breath of the Old Life. 
 
 Major Calvert's really interested desire to see 
 his psuedo nephew astride a mount afforded Gar- 
 rison the legitimate opportunity of keeping cleat; 
 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. 
 
 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 uncer- 
 tain 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 ascer- 
 tain how far the trainer had erred. 
 
 Crimmins was not given to airing his abortive 
 160
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. Gar- 
 rison 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. 
 
 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 
 lacked 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 per- 
 ception, 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: 
 
 161
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "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." 
 
 And "Father Bill" Daly ought to know above 
 all others, for he has trained more famous jockeys 
 than any other man in America. 
 
 There are two essential points in the training of 
 race-horses secrecy and ability. Crimmins pos- 
 sessed both, but the scheduled situation of the Cal- 
 vert 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 of- 
 ten than not to follow the racing paraphrase : "Dubs 
 butt in where trainers fear to tread." 
 
 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 
 
 162
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 their millionaire owners assume the role of dic- 
 tator, but Crimmins very seldom lost his temper. 
 The major was so boyishly good-hearted and bull- 
 headed that Crimmins had come to view his mas- 
 ter's racing aspirations almost as an expensive joke. 
 
 However, it seemed that the Carter Handicap 
 and the beating of his very good friend and neigh- 
 bor, Colonel Desha, had stuck firmly in Major Cal- 
 vert's craw. He promised to faithfully follow his 
 trainer's directions and leave for the nonce the 
 preparatory training entirely in his hands. 
 
 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 ac- 
 customed perch on the rail, while Garrison pre- 
 pared to get into racing-togs. 
 
 The blood was pounding in Garrison's heart as 
 163
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 thou- 
 sands of voices possessed him. 
 
 Instinctively he understood his mount; her de- 
 fects, her virtues. Instinctively he sensed that she 
 was not a "whip horse." A touch of the whale- 
 bone and she would balk stop dead in her stride. 
 He had known such horses before, generally fillies. 
 
 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 vet- 
 eran 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." 
 
 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 
 
 164
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 easily, as relentlessly, without hitch or break, as 
 fine-spun silk slips through a shuttle. She was high- 
 strung, sensitive to a degree, but Garrison under- 
 stood her, and she answered his knowledge loyally. 
 
 It was impressive riding to those who knew the 
 filly's irritability, uncertainty. Clean-cut veteran 
 horsemanship, with horse and rider as one; a me- 
 chanically precise pace, heart-breaking for a follow- 
 ing field. The major slowly climbed off the rail, 
 mechanically eying 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. 
 
 "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 under- 
 stand. 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 
 
 165
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 you do. Nor do I pretend to know how you under- 
 stand the filly. I don't understand it at all. It 
 must be a freak of nature." 
 
 "Ho, yuss!" added Crimmins quietly, his eye on 
 the silent Garrison. "Ho, yuss! it must be a mir- 
 acle. But I tell you, major, it ain't no miracle. 
 It ain't. That boy 'as earned 'is class. 'E 'as 
 somewhere. Understands Dixie? 'E could under- 
 stand 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- 
 eatin' Dutchman! 'E's th' top spit of Garrison 
 th' top spit of 'im, or may I never drink agyn!" 
 
 There was sincerity, good feeling, and force be- 
 hind the declaration, and the major eyed Garrison 
 intently and with some curiosity. 
 
 "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?" 
 
 166
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 Garrison looked the major in the eye. His heart 
 was pounding. 
 
 "If I've ever ridden a mount before I've never 
 known it," he said, with conviction and truth. 
 
 Crimmins shook his head in hopeless despair. 
 The major was too enthusiastic to quibble over how 
 the knowledge was gained. It was there in over- 
 flowing abundance. That was enough. Besides, his 
 nephew's word was his bond. He would as soon 
 
 think of doubting the Bible. 
 
 i 
 
 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. 
 
 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 mu- 
 tual 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 
 
 167
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 the other's silence, and refrained from broaching 
 the question again. 
 
 Meanwhile, to all appearances, things were run- 
 ning 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 over- 
 drawn 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 under- 
 stood 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 gentle- 
 man. He had not intended that Sue should be party 
 to them, but that night of the confession they had 
 
 Ife
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 caught him unawares. And he played the host to 
 Mr. Waterbury as only a Southern gentleman can. 
 
 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 Colo- 
 nel Desha, whatever his motives, and the latter 
 honored him on his own valuation. 
 
 Fear never would have given the turfman the 
 entree to the Desha home; only friendship. Down 
 South hospitality is sacred. When one has suc- 
 ceeded 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 
 
 170
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 guest," is a clean bill of moral health. Therefore, 
 in whatever light Sue may have regarded Mr. Wa- 
 terbury, her treatment of him was uniformly cour- 
 teous and kindly. 
 
 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 Wa- 
 terbury. 
 
 He had come unworthily 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 
 
 171
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 answers. It did its best to answer in Waterbury's 
 case. His better self was slowly awakening. 
 
 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 for- 
 tune lost by an inch of horse-flesh. And if the 
 girl knew, she gave no sign. 
 
 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 so- 
 ciety; 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. Pres- 
 ently Waterbury would leave for the North, and 
 things then would be as they had been. 
 
 He hated himself for his cowardice ; for his com- 
 promise with self-respect. It was not that he val- 
 ued Sue's regard so lightly. Rather he feared to 
 lose the little he had by daring all. He did not 
 
 173
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 know that Sue had given him up. Did not know 
 that she was hurt, mortally hurt; that her renun- 
 ciation 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 bet- 
 ter for her, she argued, that she had determined 
 upon renunciation. 
 
 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 mud- 
 dle young hearts. To confer the dignity of age 
 upon the differences of youth but serves to turn 
 a mole-hill into a mountain. 
 
 But one memorable evening, when the boyish and 
 enthusiastic major and Garrison returned from an 
 all-day session at the track, they found Mrs. Cal- 
 vert in a very quiet and serious mood, which all 
 the major's cajolery could not penetrate. And after 
 
 173
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 Mrs. Calvert's good nature was not the good na- 
 ture 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. 
 
 "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 tan- 
 gled, when pride once stopped goading you on. But 
 your aunt, boy, a very capable and discerning wom- 
 an, mind you, has other ideas on the subject which 
 she has 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, eying Garrison in distress. 
 
 "No, it is not," said Garrison heavily. "It is en- 
 tirely my fault." 
 
 174
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 The major heartily sighed his relief. 
 
 "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 some- 
 thing 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 " 
 
 "Oh, she did?" was all Garrison could find to 
 interrupt with. 
 
 "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, remem- 
 ber 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 de- 
 
 175
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 light. She values man on her own valuation not 
 his. Women are illogical that's why they marry 
 us." 
 
 The major concluded his advice by giving Gar- 
 rison a hearty thump on the back. Then he pre- 
 pared to charge his wife's boudoir; to resume the 
 peace conference with right on his side for the 
 nonce. 
 
 Garrison slowly made his way down-stairs. His 
 face was set. He knew his love for Sue was hope- 
 less, 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. 
 
 The man swung up, and tapped him on the shoul- 
 der. "Hello, Bud!" 
 
 It was Dan Crimmins. 
 
 176
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "Then I Was Not Honest." 
 
 Garrison eyed him coldly, and was about to pass 
 when Crimmins barred his way. 
 
 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." 
 
 "Take your hand off my shoulder," said Gar- 
 rison steadily. 
 
 The other's black brows met, but he smiled ge- 
 nially. 
 
 "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 Crim- 
 
 177
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 mins' way. But if you want to help an old friend 
 who's down an' out, just say so. I'm waitin'." 
 
 Garrison eyed him. Crimmins? Crimmins? 
 The name was part of his dream. What had he 
 been to this man ? What did this man know ? 
 
 "Take a walk down the pike," suggested the other 
 easily. "It ain't often you have the pleasure of 
 seem' 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 Garri- 
 son's face. 
 
 Garrison mechanically agreed, wondering. 
 
 "It's this way," began Crimmins, once the shel- 
 ter 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 
 
 178
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 just as well. You know why I left Waterbury. 
 Waterbury !" 
 
 Here Crimmins carefully selected a variety of ad- 
 jectives with which to decorate the turfman. He 
 also spoke freely about the other's ancestors, and 
 concluded with voicing certain dark convictions re- 
 garding Mr. Waterbury's future. 
 
 Garrison listened blankly. "What's all this to 
 me?" he asked sharply. "I don't know you nor 
 Mr. Waterbury." 
 
 "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 " 
 
 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 re- 
 
 179
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 peated 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?" 
 
 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? 
 
 He panted in his frenzy. The words came trip- 
 ping over one another, smothering, choking. And 
 Crimmins with set face listened; listened as Gar- 
 rison went over past events; events since that me- 
 morable 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. 
 
 "Why did I leave the track? Why? Why?" he 
 finished in a whirlwind of passion. "What hap- 
 pened? Tell me. Say I'm honest. Say it, Crim- 
 mins; say it. Help me to get back. I can ride 
 ride like glory. I'll win for you anything. Any- 
 
 180
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 thing to get me out of this hell of deceit, nonentity, 
 namelessness. Help me to square myself. I'll make 
 
 a name nobody '11 be ashamed of " His words 
 
 trailed away. Passion left him weak and quivering. 
 
 Crimmins judicially cleared his throat. There 
 was a queer light in his eyes. 
 
 "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 " 
 
 "Then I was not honest?" asked Garrison. 
 He was horribly quiet. 
 
 "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, 
 
 181
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 "Go on," whispered Garrison. His eyes were 
 very wide and vacant. 
 
 Crimmins spat carefully, as if to stimulate his 
 imagination. 
 
 "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' 
 pf the wife and kids you left up in Long Island; 
 
 182
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 left to face the music. Of course I stood their 
 friend as best I could " 
 
 "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. 
 
 "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 " 
 
 "What charges ?" Garrison did not recognize his 
 own voice. 
 
 "Why, poisoning Sis. It's a jail offense," ex- 
 claimed Crimmins. 
 
 "Indeed," commented Garrison. 
 
 Again he laughed, and again the righteous Crim- 
 mins winced. Garrison's gray eyes had the glint
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 ""Don't do anything rash, Bud. Bygones is by- 
 gones, and, as the Bible says : 'Circumstances alters 
 cases,' and " 
 
 "Then this is how I stand," cut in Garrison 
 steadily, unheeding the advice. He counted the dis- 
 honorable tally on his fingers. "I'm a horse-pois- 
 oner, a thief, a welcher. I've deserted my wife 
 and family. I owe you how much?" 
 
 "Five thousand," said Crimmins deprecatingly, 
 adding on the two just to show he had no hard 
 feelings. 
 
 "Good," said Garrison. He bit his knuckles; bit 
 until the blood came. "Good," he said again. He 
 was silent. 
 
 "I ain't in a hurry," put in Crimmins magnani- 
 mously. "But you can pay it easy. The major " 
 
 "Js a gentleman," finished Garrison, eyes nar- 
 184
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 rowed. "A gentleman whom I've wronged 
 
 treated like " He clenched his hands. Words 
 
 were of no avail. 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "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 " 
 
 "You don't mean to say you're goin' to welch 
 again?" asked the horrified Crimmins. "Goin' to 
 tell the major " 
 
 "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, da- 
 ring contradiction. "I've sneaked long enough. 
 Now I'm done with it " 
 
 "See here," inserted Crimmins, dangerously rea- 
 185
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 sonable, "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 stand- 
 ing. 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?" 
 
 "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
 
 Garrisons Finish 
 
 the devil with it, and may God send me hatred in- 
 stead!" He choked with the sheer smother of his 
 passion. 
 
 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. 
 
 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, fJatred that
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 I've always given you, you miserable, puling, lily- 
 livered spawn of a " 
 
 Garrison blotted out the insult to his mother's 
 memory with his kunckles. "And that's for your 
 friendship," he said, smashing home a right cross. 
 
 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 bet- 
 ter 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 188
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 A great splatter of hoof-beats came from down 
 the pike, sounding like the vomitings of a Catling 
 gun. A horse streaked its way toward them. Crim- 
 mins 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 sad- 
 dle-girth flapped raggedly. Garrison recognized 
 the fact that it was a runaway, with Sue Desha up. 
 
 Another horse followed, throwing space fu- 
 riously. 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 sad- 
 dle. 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. 
 
 189
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Sue Declares Her Love. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 dis- 
 temper, and the greatly exercised colonel had in- 
 duced the turfman to ride over and have a look 
 at him. This left Sue absolutely unfettered, the 
 first occasion in a week. 
 
 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 har- 
 mony. She must experience physical exhaustion
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 before resignation came. In learning a lesson she 
 could not remain inactive. She must walk, walk, 
 Up and down, up and down, until its moral or text 
 was beaten into her mentality with her echoing 
 footsteps. 
 
 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 hid- 
 den in an empty sleeve." 
 
 Sue had been forbidden to ride the pinto ever 
 since the day it was brought home to her with ir- 
 refutable emphasis that the shortest distance be- 
 tween 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. 
 
 But she would ride Lethe to-night. The other 
 horses were too comfortable. They served to irri- 
 tate the bandit passions, not to subdue them. She 
 
 191
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 panted for some one, something, to break to her 
 will. 
 
 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 in- 
 terim. So, much to Sue's surprise, the filly was 
 as gentle as the proverbial lamb. 
 
 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 atten- 
 tion to her thoughts. What was left over was de- 
 voted to the insistent mouth of Lethe, who ever 
 and anon tested the grip on her bridle-rein; ascer- 
 taining whether or not there were any symptoms 
 of relaxation or abstraction. 
 
 It is human nature to grow tired of being good. 
 Waterbury's better nature had been in the ascend- 
 ancy for over a week. He thought he could afford 
 
 192
 
 Garri'son s Finish 
 
 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 inclina- 
 tion, 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 over- 
 hanging branch he brushed against her. The con- 
 tact set him aflame. He was hungrily eying 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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 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 si- 
 lence, inflamed Waterbury. He made to crush her 
 waist with his ravenous arm. Then, for the first 
 
 193
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 Desperation came to help him brave those eyes 
 came and failed. He talked, declaimed, avowed 
 grew brutally frank. Finally he spoke of the mort- 
 gage he held, and waited, breathing heavily, for the 
 answer. There was none. 
 
 "I suppose it's some one else, eh?" he rapped 
 out, red showing in the brown of his eyes. 
 
 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 outrage. 
 
 "It's this nephew of Major Calvert's," added 
 Waterbury. He lost the last shred of common de- 
 cency 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 
 
 194
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 " 
 
 The girl turned swiftly, and her little gauntlet 
 caught Waterbury full across the mouth. 
 
 "You lie!" she whispered, very softly, her face 
 white and quivering, her eyes black with passion. 
 
 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. 
 
 And then Waterbury 's better self gained su- 
 premacy; contrition, self-hatred rushing in like a 
 fierce tidal wave and swamping the last vestige of 
 animalism. He spurred blindly after the fast-dis- 
 appearing filly. 
 
 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 
 
 105
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 rider, outfought her, outstayed her. As he flew 
 down the moon-swept road, bright as at any noon- 
 time, Garrison knew success would be his, providing 
 Sue kept her seat, her nerve, and the saddle from 
 twisting. 
 
 Inch by inch the white, shadow-flecked space be- 
 tween 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. 
 
 Garrison knew horses. He called on the gelding 
 for a supreme effort, and the gelding answered im- 
 pressively. 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 cheer- 
 fully. 
 
 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 
 
 196
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 And then, womanlike, Sue fainted, and Gar- 
 rison 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. 
 
 Sue lay there, her wealth of hair clouding Gar- 
 rison'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. 
 
 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 ; grip- 
 ping her as a drowning man grips at a passing 
 straw. 
 
 With a great heave and a passionate cry she 
 flung him from her. She rose unsteadily to her 
 
 197
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 feet. He stood, shame engulfing him. Then she 
 caught her breath hard. 
 
 "Oh!" she said softly, "it's it's you!" She 
 laughed tremulously. "I I thought it was Mr. 
 Waterbury." 
 
 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. 
 
 "Mr. Waterbury was thrown. I took his mount," 
 he blurted out, at length. "Are you hurt?" 
 
 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. 
 
 She shivered, though the night was warm. 
 
 "Why did you call me Miss Desha?" she asked, 
 at length. 
 
 "Because," he said feebly his nature was true 
 198
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 " 
 
 "I knew you were," said the girl simply. "Why 
 did you try to hide it ? Shame?" 
 
 "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 " 
 
 "Then it's true?" she asked. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "I believe you," she said quietly. 
 
 "Thank you," he replied as quietly. 
 
 "And you think it necessary, imperative that 
 199
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 you go away ?" There was an unuttered sob in her 
 voice, though she sought to choke it back. 
 
 "I do." He laughed a little the laugh that had 
 caused the righteous Dan Crimmins to wince. 
 
 She made a passionate gesture with her hand. 
 "Billy," she said, and stopped, eyes flaming. 
 
 "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." 
 
 She was silent, her face quivering. 
 
 "And you think that of me? You could think 
 it of me? No, from the first I knew you were 
 Garrison " 
 
 "Forgive me," he inserted. 
 
 "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 ef- 
 fort. 
 
 "I think I understand now," he said, and ad- 
 miration was in his eyes ; "I know the track, I
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 should." He was speaking lifelessly, eyes on the 
 ground. "And I understand that you do not know 
 all." 
 
 "All?" 
 
 "Um-um-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. 
 
 "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?" 
 
 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. 
 
 301
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "And and that's all," he whispered. "God 
 knows it's enough too much." He drew himself 
 away as some unclean thing. 
 
 "All that, all that, and you only a boy," whis- 
 pered the girl, half to herself. "You must not tell 
 the major. You must not," she cried fiercely. 
 
 "I must," he whispered. "I will." 
 
 "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. 
 
 "I'm a coward if I run," he said. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "You are very kind very kind. You do not say 
 
 2O2
 
 "I can't give you up, I won't!" 
 
 Page 2oj.
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 you loathe me." He arose abruptly, clenching his 
 hands above his head in silent agony. 
 
 "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. Be- 
 cause I love you, love you, love you. Boy, boy, 
 can't you see? Won't you see? I love you " 
 
 "Don't," he cried sharply, as if in physical agony. 
 "You don't know what you say " 
 
 "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 every- 
 thing aside in its mad rush. "Take me with you. 
 Take me with you anywhere," she panted passion- 
 ately. 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 
 
 203
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 He caught both wrists and eyed her. She was 
 panting, but her eyes met his unwaveringly, glo- 
 riously unashamed. He fought for every word. 
 "Don't tempt me Sue. Good God, girl! you 
 don't know how I love. 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 " 
 
 "It's the girl up North?" 
 
 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. 
 
 "I was wrong. You must go to her," she whis- 
 pered. "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 every- 
 thing but that I love." 
 
 204
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 Garrison turned. She never forgot the look his 
 face held ; never forgot the tone of his voice. 
 
 "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." 
 
 He swung on his heel and blindly flung himself 
 upon the waiting gelding. 
 
 Sue stood motionless. 
 
 205
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Garrison Himself Again. 
 
 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; any- 
 how, anywhere. 
 
 He was like a raw recruit who has been lying on 
 the firing-line, suffering the agonies of apprehen- 
 
 206
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 sion, of imagination ; experiencing the proximity of 
 death in cold blood, without the heat of action to 
 render him oblivious. 
 
 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 ac- 
 tions would come. At present, only action; only 
 action. 
 
 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 Water- 
 bury 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, 
 
 207
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 shoulders hunched, he bent over the gelding. He 
 had no recollection of that ride. 
 
 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 nerve- 
 less, on the beach of retrospect; among the wreck 
 of past hopes; the flotsam and jetsam of what 
 might have been. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 On the second day doubt came to Garrison, and 
 with it a ray of hope. For the first time the pos- 
 
 208
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 sibility 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 in- 
 vented the statement through sheer ill will? Real- 
 izing that Garrison's memory was a blank, might 
 he not have sought to rivet the blackmailing fetters 
 upon him by this new bolt? 
 
 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 him his lifetime. And he would seek some 
 way of wiping out, or at least diminishing, the stain 
 he had left behind him in Virginia. 
 
 On the other hand, if Crimmins had lied Gar- 
 209
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 rison'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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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; 
 
 210
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 There were brave men there that night, but there 
 an
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 Abed- 
 nego. He was not fashioned from providential as- 
 bestos. He was vulnerable. They carried him to. 
 
 212
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
 213
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 in Bellevue long ago, and with tense hands and 
 blazing eyes fought out victory on the stretch. Hor- 
 rible, horrible nights; surcharged with the frenzy 
 and unreality of a nightmare. 
 
 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. 
 
 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, more- 
 over, they gave it back intact. The part they 
 had stolen that night in the Hoffman House was 
 replaced. 
 
 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. 
 
 214
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 work- 
 manlike. The long-halted clock of memory was 
 ticking away merrily, perfectly, and not one hour 
 
 III
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 was missing from its dial. The thread of his sev- 
 ered life was joined joined in such a manner that 
 no hitch or knot was apparent. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 216
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "Kid," he said. "Kid." 
 
 Garrison turned swiftly. His hand gripped the 
 other's. 
 
 "Jimmie Drake," he whispered. For the first 
 time the blood came to his face. 
 
 217
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Proven Clean. 
 
 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 won- 
 derful rose-colored glasses of the dreamer. He 
 was patiently going back over his past life ; return- 
 ing to the point where he had deserted the clearly 
 defined path of honor and duty for the flowery 
 fields of unbridled license. 
 
 It was no easy task he had set himself, but he 
 did not falter by the wayside. Three great stimu- 
 lants he had health, the thought of Sue Desha, and 
 the practical assistance of Jimmie Drake,
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 the 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 en- 
 suing season. 
 
 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. 
 
 "Thank you," he said, on the granting of his re- 
 quest, which he more than thought would be re- 
 fused. His eyes voiced where his lips were dumb. 
 "I haven't gone back, Jimmie, but it's good of you 
 to give me the chance on my say-so. I'll bear it in 
 mind. And and it's good of you, Jimmie, to to 
 
 319
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 come and sit with me. I I appreciate it all, and 
 I don't see why you should do it." 
 
 Drake laughed awkwardly. 
 
 "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 " 
 
 "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. Hon- 
 est!" 
 
 "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. , 
 
 220
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 And then slowly, haltingly, but lucidly, dispas- 
 sionately, events following in sequence, Garrison 
 told everything; concealing nothing. Nor did he 
 try to gloze over or strive to nullify his own dis- 
 honorable actions. He told everything, and the 
 turfman, chin in hand, eyes riveted on the narrator, 
 listened absorbed. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Know what?" Garrison sat bolt upright in his 
 narrow cot, his heart pounding. 
 
 "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, 
 
 221
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 " 
 
 "Tell me, tell me." Garrison's lip was quiver- 
 ing; his face gray with excitement. 
 
 Drake ran on forcefully, succinctly, his hand 
 gripping Garrison's. 
 
 "Well, we'll take it up from that day of the Car- 
 ter Handicap. Remember? When you and Wa- 
 terbury 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. 
 
 222
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 I believed that. But I knew Crimmins had made 
 a pile. I found that out. And I believed he drugged 
 you, kid. 
 
 "Now, when you tell me you were fighting con- 
 sumption 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. 
 
 "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 
 iwas nasty. Instead of denying it and putting the 
 
 223
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 proving of the game up to me, he took the bit in 
 his mouth at something Waterbury said. 
 
 "I don't know all the facts. They came out in 
 the paper afterward. But Crimmins and Water- 
 bury 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. 
 
 "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 
 
 224
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 cinch 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 show- 
 down." 
 
 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 re- 
 
 225
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 mained silent. And Drake respected his silence to 
 the letter. Then Garrison uncovered his eyes. 
 
 "I can't believe it. I can't believe it," he whis- 
 pered, wide-eyed. "It is too good to be true. It 
 means too much. You're sure you're right, Jim- 
 mie? It means I'm proven clean, proven square. 
 It means reinstatement on the turf. Means every- 
 thing." 
 
 "All that, kid," said Drake. "I thought you 
 knew." 
 
 Garrison hugged his knees in a paroxysm of si- 
 lent joy. 
 
 "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." 
 
 226
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "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 the 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 some- 
 thing, kid. Don't forget that." 
 
 "Yes, he had his good points," whispered Gar- 
 rison. "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." 
 
 "I was coming to that." Drake scratched his 
 grizzled head elaborately. "I didn't say anything 
 
 227
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 when you were unwinding that yarn, kid, but it 
 sounded mighty tangled to me." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "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 " 
 
 "What do you mean?" Garrison bored his eyes 
 into Drake's. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "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 " 
 
 "Oh, shucks! What's the odds? Blood's blood. 
 228
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 Garrison shook his head wearily. "I can't fol- 
 low 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 impostor? Knew all 
 along? You can't mean that, Jimmie?" 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "Improbable, but not impossible." Suddenly Gar- 
 rison had commenced to breathe heavily, his hands 
 clenching. 
 
 Drake cocked his head on one side and closed 
 229
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 For a long time Garrison stared at him unwink- 
 ingly. Then he laughed wildly. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "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. 
 
 230
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 My name is Garrison. There's no dodging that. 
 You can't change that into Dagget." 
 
 "How do you know?" argued Drake slowly, per- 
 tinaciously. "This here is my idea, and I ain't will- 
 ing 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 be- 
 cause he never cared for you. No, the more I think 
 of it the more I'm certain that you're Major Cal- 
 vert's nephew. You're the only logical answer. 
 That mark of the spur and the other incidents is 
 good enough for me." 
 
 "Don't tempt me, Jimmie, don't tempt me," 
 pleaded Garrison again. "You don't know what 
 
 231
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 it all means. I may be his nephew. I may be 
 God grant I am ! But I must be honest. I must be 
 honest." 
 
 "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 dis- 
 honesty; may not have known. But I'm going to 
 rustle round after him. Maybe there's proofs he 
 holds. What about Major Cal vert? Are you going 
 to write him?" 
 
 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
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 "I believe you, kid." 
 
 Subsequently, Drake fulfilled his word concern- 
 ing the "rustling round" after that eminent law- 
 yer, Theobald D. Snark. His efforts met with 
 failure. Probably the eminent lawyer's business 
 had increased so enormously that he had been com- 
 pelled to vacate the niche he held in the Nassau 
 Street bookcase. But Drake had not given up the 
 fight. 
 
 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." 
 
 9
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Garrison Finds Himself. 
 
 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." 
 
 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 min- 
 utes before the messenger of a new life summoned 
 him into the great beyond. He used the few min- 
 utes 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. 
 
 Waterbury asked permission of his host, Colonel 
 Desha, to see Sue alone. It was willingly granted. 
 
 234
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 preced- 
 ing the runaway and Waterbury's accident. 
 
 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 pos- 
 sessed had but emerged refined. His fingers, for- 
 merly pudgy, well-fed, had suddenly become skele- 
 tons of themselves. They were picking at the 
 coverlet. 
 
 "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, sud- 
 denly in a smother of sweat. "Forgive " 
 
 "Gladly, willingly," whispered the girl. She was 
 crying inwardly. 
 
 His eyes flamed for an instant, and then died 
 away. By sheer will-power he succeeded in stretch- 
 
 235
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 ing a hand across the coverlet, palm upward. "Put 
 put it there," he whispered. "Will you?" 
 
 She understood. It was the sporting world's 
 token of forgiveness; of friendship. She laid her 
 hand in his, gripping with a firm clasp. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "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 !" 
 
 And again the girl understood. Without a word 
 she bent over and kissed him. He smiled. And so 
 djecl Waterbury. 
 
 336
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 Afterward, the girl remembered Waterbury's 
 confession. So Garrison was honest! Somehow, 
 she had always believed he was. His eyes, the win- 
 dows of his soul, were not fouled. She had read 
 weakness there, but never dishonesty. Yes, some- 
 how 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 every- 
 thing. She could not understand how one could 
 ever forget. One might forget the world, but not 
 that, not that. 
 
 True to her code of judging not, she did not at- 
 tempt 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 prox- 
 imity renders an experiment prohibitive. She be- 
 lieved that Garrison loved her. She believed that 
 above all. Surely he had given something in ex-
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 change for all that he owned of her. If in un- 
 guarded moments her conscience assumed the wool- 
 sack, mercy, not justice, swayed it. 
 
 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." 
 
 Yes, it had been weakness with Garrison, not dis- 
 honor. 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?" 
 
 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.
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 exist- 
 ing without an excuse; aimlessly, soullessly. 
 
 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 be- 
 came tissue-searing flame. 
 
 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 Garri- 
 son'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 diffi- 
 cult proposition to face, and she could not face it. 
 
 239
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 It had all been her fault. He had not been to 
 blame. It was she, only she. In a thoughtless mo- 
 ment she had said something about his being de- 
 pendent 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 
 
 240
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 how stubborn he was. He would not return until 
 he wished. 
 
 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 chil- 
 dren. 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. 
 
 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 an- 
 
 241
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 ger, all the quarrels in the world could not account 
 for his leaving like that ; account for his silence. 
 
 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 im- 
 potent. He could not understand. If his nephew 
 did not wish to return, all the advertising in crea- 
 tion could not drag him back. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 desper- 
 
 242
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 ate 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 win- 
 ning the Carter Handicap. Things had come to as 
 bad a pass as that. 
 
 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 wonder- 
 ful. 
 
 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 ex- 
 pense. It must be met. All his hopes, his fears, 
 
 343
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 Then, too, he was greatly worried over Sue. She 
 was not looking well. He was worried over Garri- 
 son'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 fin- 
 ish. 
 
 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. 
 
 And then, one day when things were at their 
 worst, when Garrison, unconscious of the general 
 misery he had engendered, had completed Speed- 
 away 's training for the Carter, when he himself 
 was ready for the fight of his life, a stranger 
 
 244
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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 Gar- 
 rison 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. 
 
 Drake never wasted ammunition in preliminary 
 skirmishing. He told the, joke first and the story 
 afterward. 
 
 "I've been South. Seen Colonel Desha and Major 
 Calvert," he said tersely. 
 
 Garrison was silent, looking at him. He tried to 
 read fate in his inscrutable eyes; news of some de- 
 scription; tried, and failed. He turned away his 
 head. "Tell me," he said simply. Drake eyed him 
 
 245
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 and slowly came forward and held out his large 
 bloodshot hand. 
 
 "Billy Garrison 'Bud' 'Kid' William C. Dag- 
 get," he said, nodding his head. 
 
 Garrison rose with difficulty, the sweat on his 
 face. 
 
 "William C. Dagget? Me? Me? Me?" he 
 whispered, his head thrown forward, his eyes nar- 
 rowed, staring at Drake. "Just God, Jimmie ! don't 
 
 play with me " He sat down abruptly, covering 
 
 his quivering face with his hands. 
 
 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 
 
 246
 
 Garrison s Finfsh 
 
 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." 
 
 "Lied for me?" said Garrison very quietly. 
 
 "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 Colo- 
 nel 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 noth- 
 ing. They were in an awful stew over your ab- 
 
 247
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 sence, but I never let on, at first, that I had you 
 bunked. 
 
 "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 man- 
 hood, 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." 
 
 "My father?" whispered Garrison. 
 
 "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 mort- 
 gage on the farm business. As I remarked before, 
 some right-meaning chap says somewhere some- 
 thing 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. 
 
 248
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "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. 
 
 "There was a whole lot of repentance and general 
 misery in the letter. I don't like to think of it over- 
 much. 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 his- 
 tory, 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." 
 
 249
 
 Garrisons Finish 
 
 "Yes, yes," murmured Garrison blankly. "And 
 and the major? What did he say, Jimmie?" 
 
 Drake frowned thoughtfully. 
 
 "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 fin- 
 ished, thoughtfully eying 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 vigor- 
 ously using the lurid silk handkerchief. 
 
 William C. Dagget was silent the silence of 
 250
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 great, overwhelming joy. He was shivering. "And 
 and Miss Desha?" he whispered at length. 
 
 "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 pro- 
 fessed to love Miss Desha, then may I rot rot, 
 hide, hair, and bones! Now, cuss me out, if you 
 like."
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 Garrison looked up grimly. 
 
 "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 so high ; I so horribly low. It was my own un- 
 worthiness choking me. It was not selfishness, 
 Jimmie, not selfishness. It was despair ; despair and 
 misery. Don't you understand?" 
 
 "Oh, fuss!" and 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. 
 
 "And now, with your permission, we'll get down 
 to tacks, Mr. William C. Dagget " 
 
 "Don't call me that, Jimmie. I'm not that yet. 
 I'm Billy Garrison until I've won the Carter Handi- 
 cap proven myself clean." 
 
 253
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "No," said Garrison flatly. "Why?" 
 
 "Because, kid, you're not going to ride Speed- 
 away. 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." 
 
 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 
 slake; 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. 
 
 253
 
 Garrisons Finish 
 
 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 ? 
 
 "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 the 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. 
 
 "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 abil- 
 ity 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 
 
 254
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 " 
 
 "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 Speed- 
 away !" 
 
 "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. 
 
 "You'll have a 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. 
 
 255
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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." 
 
 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. 
 
 256
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Garrison's Finish. 
 
 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 open- 
 ing of the Eastern racing season; the day of the 
 Carter Handicap. 
 
 Though not one of the "classics," the Carter an- 
 nually 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. Enthusi- 
 asts 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 ubiqui- 
 
 257
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 tous umbrella and winter flannels; taking fortune 
 boldly by the hand; returning to first principles; 
 living for the moment; for the trial of skill, en- 
 durance, and strength; staking enough in the bal- 
 ances to bring a fillip to the heart and the blood to 
 the cheek. 
 
 It was a typical American crowd; long-suffering, 
 giving and taking principally giving good-hu- 
 mored, 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; com- 
 ing from all quarters by every medium; centering 
 at last at the Queen's County Jockey Club. 
 
 And never before in the history of the Aqueduct 
 track had so thoroughly a representative body of 
 racegoers assembled at an opening day. Never be- 
 fore 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
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 of the turf was there, but even they only formed a 
 small portion of the attendance. 
 
 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. 
 
 The world had not forgotten. They remembered 
 The Rogue's last race. They remembered Garri- 
 son'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. 
 
 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. 
 
 259
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 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 is entirely wrong 
 to tempt Fortune, and then have her turn on you. 
 She should always be down on the "other fellow" 
 not you. 
 
 And then there were those, and many, who did 
 260
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 shib- 
 boleth of the moral coward: "I told you so." But 
 still they doubted that he had "come back." A has- 
 been can never come back. 
 
 The conservative element backed Morgan's Swal- 
 low. 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 Gar- 
 rison had once warned him, he was already begin- 
 ning to pay the price. The philosophy of the ex- 
 ercise-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 experi- 
 
 261
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 enced what the latter's inherent cleanliness had kept 
 him from. 
 
 Temptation had come Red's way; come strong 
 without reservation. Red, with the hunger of the 
 long-denied, with the unrestricted appetite of the in- 
 tellectually 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. 
 
 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 initia- 
 tive, 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. 
 
 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 Garri- 
 
 363
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 son was to ride The Rogue. What did that mat- 
 ter? 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 en- 
 try instead. 
 
 In the grand stand sat three people wearing a blue 
 and gold ribbon the Desha colors. Occasionally 
 they were reen forced by a big man, who circulated 
 between them and the paddock. The latter was Jim- 
 mie Drake. The others were "Cottonton," as the 
 turfman called them. They were Major and Mrs. 
 Calvert and Sue Desha. 
 
 Colonel Desha was not there. He was eating his 
 heart out back home. The nerve he had been living 
 
 263
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 would not stand the excite- 
 ment; his constitution could not meet the long jour- 
 ney North. And so alone, propped up in bed, he 
 waited ; waited, counting off each minute ; more ex- 
 cited, wrought up, than if he had been at the track. 
 
 It had been arranged that in the event of The 
 Rogue winning, the good news should be tele- 
 graphed to the colonel the moment the gelding 
 flashed past the judges' stand. He had insisted on 
 that and on his daughter being present. Some mem- 
 ber 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. 
 
 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 oc- 
 cupy. She was apathetic, listless; a striking con- 
 trast to the major and his wife, who could hardly 
 repress their feelings. They knew what she woulcj 
 
 264
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 find at the Aqueduct track find the world. She did 
 not. 
 
 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. 
 
 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? 
 
 She could not believe he no longer cared. She.
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 Colonel Desha's enforced absence overcame the 
 one difficulty Major Calvert and Jimmie Drake had 
 acknowledged might prematurely explode their hid- 
 den 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 in- 
 structions, 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. 
 
 Garrison was up-stairs in the jockeys' quarters of 
 the new paddock structure, the lower part of which 
 is reserved for the clerical force, and so she had not 
 
 266
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 "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! 
 
 "Why, yes, I believe so, Miss Desha," replied 
 Drake, delightfully innocent. "Why?" 
 
 "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; imi- 
 tation 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?" 
 
 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?" 
 
 The girl's eyes kindled strangely. Then she hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 267
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 "But but I can't bet against The Rogue. It 
 would not be loyal." 
 
 Mrs. Calvert laughed softly. 
 
 "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." 
 
 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. 
 
 "Here they come," yelled Drake, echoed by the 
 rippling shout of the crowd. 
 
 The girl rose, white-faced; striving to pick out 
 the blue and gold of the Desha stable. 
 
 And here they came, the thirteen starters; thir- 
 teen finished examples of God and man's handicraft. 
 Speed, endurance, skill, nerve, grit all were there. 
 Horse and rider trained to the second, Bone, mus->
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 cle, 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 Handi- 
 cap. 
 
 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-makers' 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 
 home; 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. 
 
 Last of all came The Rogue, black, lean, danger- 
 ous. 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; 
 
 369
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 packed every day in the soft, velvety red clay 
 brought all the way from the Potomac River. 
 
 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 rec- 
 ognized instantly, before even his face could be dis- 
 cerned. 
 
 A murmur, increasing rapidly to a roar, swung 1 
 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. 
 
 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 1 and con- 
 tempt. 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 mem- 
 ory for the deeds that have been done unless they 
 vouch for future conquests. The public fickle as 
 
 2-70
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 But he had no false hopes, illusions. His had 
 been the welcome vouchsafed the veteran who is 
 hopelessly facing his last fight. They, perhaps, ad- 
 mired 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? 
 
 He knew, and his heart did not quicken nor his 
 pulse increase so much as a beat. He was cool, im- 
 placable, 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. 
 
 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 
 
 271
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 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"; "Cotton- 
 ton" 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. 
 
 "They're off ! They're off !" That great, magic 
 cry ; fingering at the heart, tingling the blood. Sig- 
 
 272
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 nal for a roar from every throat ; for the stretching 
 of every neck to the dislocating point; for prayers, 
 imprecations, adjurations the entire stock of na- 
 ture's sentiment factory. Sentiment, unbridled, un- 
 leashed, unchecked. Passion given a kick and sent 
 hurtling without let or hindrance. 
 
 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 prelimin- 
 aries, 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! 
 
 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." 
 
 273
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 "Pocketed already!" yelled some derisively. Gar- 
 rison 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. 
 
 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 bet- 
 ter stayer; as fast 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. 
 
 274
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 My ! that was some going. Quarter-mile in twenty- 
 four flat. Another record wiped out. What a 
 pace! 
 
 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. . . . 
 
 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,.
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 ! . . . Mc- 
 Gloin, McGloin, McGloin! You're riding, boy, 
 riding. Good work. Snappy work. You've got 
 Emetic dead to rights. You were all right in fol- 
 lowing 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 mat- 
 ter 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 
 
 276
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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! . . . 
 
 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 !" 
 
 Game Swallow's eyes had a blue film over them. 
 The heart-breaking pace-following had told. Red's 
 
 277
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 error of judgment had told. The "little less" had 
 told. A frenzied howl went up. "Garrison! Gar- 
 rison! 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. 
 
 Swallow, with a thin streamer of blood thread- 
 ing 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-break- 
 ing 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 And as, saddle on shoulder, he stood on the 
 278
 
 A frenzied howl went up. "Garrison! Garrison! Garrison!" 
 
 Page 278.
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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 unut- 
 tered prayer was: "Dear God, make me worthy, 
 make me worthy of them all !" 
 
 Aftermath was a blur to "Garrison." Great hap- 
 piness can obscure, befog like great sorrow. And 
 there are some things which touch the heart too 
 vitally to admit of analyzation. But long after- 
 ward, when time, mighty adjuster of the human 
 soul, had given to events their true proportions, 
 that meeting with "Cottonton" loomed up in all its 
 geatness, 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 
 
 279
 
 Garrisons Finish 
 
 in the eyes of all, even the shrewd, kindly eyes of 
 Drake the Silent and in the slap from his congratu- 
 latory paw, was all that man could ask; more than 
 man could deserve. 
 
 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 her eyes. "Garri- 
 son" was thinking, thinking of many things. Some- 
 how, words were unkind to him, too ; somehow, they 
 seemed quite unnecessary. 
 
 "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 
 
 280
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 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. 
 
 "You," she exclaimed, a caressing, indolent in- 
 flection 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." 
 
 "You mustn't say that," he whispered. "It is 
 you, not me. It is you who are all and I nothing. 
 It is you." 
 
 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. 
 
 "And there's old Jimmie Drake;" added "Garri- 
 son" musingly, at length, a light in his eyes. He 
 nodded up the aisle where the turfman was enter- 
 taining 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 
 
 281
 
 Garrison s Finish 
 
 to earn, keep it as I will strive to be worthy of your 
 love. I know what it cost Drake to scratch Speed- 
 away. I will not, cannot forget. We owe every- 
 thing to him, dear; everything." 
 
 "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 cy- 
 clone. I think he understands that there is, and al- 
 ways 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." 
 
 He turned and looked steadily into her great eyes. 
 His hand went out to meet hers. 
 
 "You," whispered the girl again. 
 
 282
 
 What the Critics say of 
 
 Chip of the Flying U. 
 
 By B. M. BOWER. 
 
 " ' Chip ' is all right. Better than The Virginian.* " 
 
 Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 " The name of B. M. Bower will stand for something readable in 
 the estimation of every man, and most every woman, who reads this fine 
 new story of Montana ranch andjts dwellers." Publisher &" Retailer. 
 
 " Its qualities and merit can be summed up in the brief but suffi- 
 cient statement that it is thoroughly delightful." 
 
 Albany Times-Union* 
 
 " For strength of interest, vivid description, clever and convincing 
 character, drawing and literary merit it is the surprise of the year." 
 
 Walden's Stationer and Printer. 
 
 " It is an appealing story told in an active style which fairly 
 sparkles in reproducing the atmosphere of the wild and woolly West. It 
 is consistently forceful and contains a quantity of refreshing comedy." 
 
 Philadelphia Press. 
 " Bound to stand among the famous novels of the year." 
 
 Baltimore American. 
 
 " ' The Virginian ' has found many imitators, but few authors have 
 come as near duplicating Owen Wister's magnetic hero as has B. M. 
 Bower, ' Chip of the Flying U.' " Philadelphia Item. 
 
 "B. M. Bower has portrayed but few characters, but these he has 
 pictured with the strong and yet delicate stroke of a true master. The 
 atmosphere of the West is perfect ; one sees and feels the vibrant, vital 
 life of the ranch activities all through the telling of the story." 
 
 Cincinnati Times-Star. 
 
 " It brims over with humor showing the bright and laughing side of 
 ranch life. It is a story which will delightfully entertain the reader." 
 
 Portland Journal. 
 
 " The story contains strength of interest, vivid descriptions, clever 
 and convincing character drawing and literary merits, and the author lays 
 on the colors with a master's touch." Albany Evening Journal. 
 
 I2mo, Cloth Bound, Color Illustrations, $135 
 
 G. W. DILUNGHAM GO, Publishers, NEW YORK
 
 What the Critics say of 
 
 The Range Dwellers. 
 
 By B. M. BOWER. 
 
 41 A clever and humorous story, delightfully clean and wholesome, 
 and possessing enough of the dramatic and dangerous element to keep 
 the imagination excited to the end." The Nashville American. 
 
 " A bright, jolly, entertaining yarn without a dull page." 
 
 The Chicago Inter-Ocean. 
 
 " One of the most charming and appealing of all Western novels. 
 There is action and vivacity at all times, and the reader's interest never 
 sways for an instant. The story is admirably written and runs along 
 smoothly at all times." Philadelphia Press. 
 
 " Here are every day, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist, 
 spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo and 
 Juliet courtship in the Far West which make easy reading. Mr. Bower 
 knows his wild west intimately and writes of it entertainingly." 
 
 Des Moines Register and Leader. 
 
 " Told with a good deal of humor and a lot of unusual spirit. A 
 very clever book one that has more atmosphere than usual, and which 
 can be picked up at any time to fill a long felt want for excitement." 
 
 Philadelphia Inquirer. 
 
 "A tale to set the blood tingling. It is a story of the West, with 
 the scene laid on a Montana cattle ranch. A story well told and a story 
 worth reading." St. Louis Republic. 
 
 " Mr. Bower has portrayed but few characters, but these he has 
 pictured with the strong and yet delicate stroke of a true master. The 
 atmosphere of the West is perfect; one sees and feels the vibrant vital 
 life of the ranch activities all through the telling of the story." 
 
 Pittsburg Dispatch. 
 
 " Has many stirring situations and exciting incidents illustrative of 
 existence in the open." Boston Budget-Beacon. 
 
 " The book is vigorous, with the bracing open air of the Far West." 
 
 Rochester Herald. 
 
 t2mo, Cloth Bound 
 Beautiful Color Illustrations by Charles M. Russell, $f35 
 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM CO,, Publishers, NEW YORK
 
 WHAT THE REVIEWERS SAID 
 
 About the Novel 
 
 THE LION AND THE MOUSE 
 
 Novelized horn Charles Klein's great play 
 B ARTHUR HORNBLCW 
 
 Hew York 
 
 TBIBUXE 
 
 " Mr. Hornblow has done his work with creditable 
 aptitude. He is successful where success is most 
 important in keeping up the reader's suspense, in 
 working effectively toward the climax. The book 
 
 will interest those who have seen the play, and will doubtless send 
 
 others to the theatre." 
 
 " Mr. Hornblow has made his novelization of an 
 * TIMES enormously successful play in a workmanlike man- 
 
 I ner. The story, like the play, belongs to this very 
 minute. It is full of a spirit and a feeling that are 
 in the air. It deals with subjects which much iteration has strongly 
 impressed on the people, and its point of view is the most obvious. The 
 novel is likely to have an enormous sale." 
 
 " Undoubtedly the book of the hour. Both the 
 novel and the play appeal to the widest possible 
 American public. The novelist gives more of the 
 interesting story and has enhanced the virility and 
 
 " ' The Lion and the Mouse,' as a novel, more 
 than maintains the reputation of its author as a clean* 
 cut exposition of throbbing American life by a real 
 novelist. Mr. Hornblow knows his subject and has 
 succeeded in welding his own characteristic and illuminating expression 
 to the idea of another man in such a manner that the novel must take 
 its place beside the play as a welcome addition to American art." 
 
 Was] neton "Will become the most talked-of book of the 
 
 POST 
 
 year. . . . As exciting and fascinating a narrative 
 as has appeared in novel form in years." 
 
 1Kw Orleans *' ^ r Hornblow's bk is written in distinguished 
 
 cvA-B-rirrkYTTw 1 English; its chapters are chiselled to exact propor- 
 
 fl Jfc lfcfc*HMIUUI I .. / . .. . . . . . r 
 
 -T ' 
 
 .. , . .. . . . . . 
 
 tions ; its story is clear and limpid ; particularly are 
 its characters cleverly vivid, and with few exceptions 
 tell themselves in the dialogue more plainly than they could with ever 
 so much extrinsic aid of psychic and physical description. The Ameri- 
 can nation is indebted to him. He has clothed with the vibrant pali- 
 tating flesh of life-interest the greatest economic problem and evil of 
 day. It is a book to make the multitude think.
 
 A 000132790 7