Garrisons Finish | Page 4

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 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 of the Aqueduct. There was not a friendly eye in that
crowd. He stuffed his ears with indifference. He would not bear their
remarks as they recognized him. He summoned all his nerve to look
them in the face unflinchingly--that nerve that had been frayed to
ribbons.
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.

"I've looked for you," he whipped out venomously, his large hands
ravenous for something to rend. "Now I've caught you. Who was in
with you on that dirty deal? Answer, you cur! Spit it out before the
crowd. Was it me? Was it me?" he reiterated in a frenzy, taking a step
forward for each word, his bad grammar coming equally to the fore.
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 heaving 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 voice from sliding the
scale. He was horribly calm, but his gray eyes were quivering as was
his lip. "I didn't throw it. I--I didn't throw it. I was sick. I--I've been sick.
I--I----" Then, for he was only a boy with a man's burdens, his lip
began to quiver pitifully; his voice shrilled out and his words came
tumbling forth like lava; striving to make up by passion and reiteration
what they lacked in logic and coherency. "I'm not a thief. I'm not. I'm
honest. I don't know how it happened. Everything became a blur in the
stretch. You--you've called me a liar, Mr. Waterbury. You've called me
a thief. You struck me. I know you can lick me," he shrilled. "I'm
dishonored--down and out. I know you can lick me, but, by the Lord,
you'll do it here and now! You'll fight me. I don't like you. I never liked
you. I don't like your face. I don't like your hat, and here's your damn
colors in your face." He fiercely crumpled the silk handkerchief and

pushed it swiftly into Waterbury's glowering eye.
Instantly there was a mix-up. The crowd was blood-hungry. They had
paid for sport of some kind. There would be no crooked work in this
deal. Lustfully they watched. Then the inequality of the boy and the
man was at length borne in on them, and it roused their stagnant sense
of fair play.
Garrison, a small hell let loose, had risen from the turf for the third time!
His face was a smear of blood,