“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
tennis-court. Really, you play a wretched game, William.”
“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,” commented the girl. She turned
to Mrs. Calvert. “Whose ravings are you going to listen to now?” she
asked, taking the book Mrs. Calvert carried.
“A matter of duty,” laughed the older woman. “No; it's not a novel. It
came this morning. The major wishes me to assimilate it and impart
to him its nutritive elements--if it contains any. He is so miserably
busy--doing nothing, as usual. But it is a labor of love. If we women
are denied children, we must interest ourselves in other things.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the girl, with interest; “it's the years record of the
track!” She was thumbing over the leaves. “I'd love to read it! May
I when you've done? Thank you. Why, here's Sysonby, Gold Heels, The
Picket--dear old Picket! Kentucky's pride! And here's Sis. Remember Sis?
The Carter Handicap--”
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 murmured 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 familiar.”
Again he fell to studying the graceful lines of the thoroughbred,
oblivious of his audience.
“She is a Southern horse,” commented Mrs. Calvert. “Rather she was.
Of course you-all heard of her poisoning? It never said whether she
recovered. Do you know?”
Garrison glanced up quickly, and met Sue Desha's unwavering stare.
“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. Calvert 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 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. Waterbury you were speaking of?”
The girl nodded. There was silence, each member 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 observed absently. “I wonder what it was? A thing
like that always piques my curiosity. I suppose the major wanted it for
reference. But then he hasn't seen the book yet. I wonder who wanted it?
Let me--yes, it's ended here. Oh, it must have been the photograph and
record of that jockey, Billy Garrison! Remember him? What a brilliant
career he had! One never hears of him nowadays. I wonder what became of
him?”
“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 household word. You should have heard it. But, then, I
don't suppose you ever went to the track. Those who do don't forget.”
Mrs. Calvert walked slowly away. “Of course you'll stay for lunch, Sue,”
she called back. “And a canter might get up an appetite. William, I
meant to tell you before this that the major has reserved a horse for
your use. He is mild and thoroughly broken. Crimmins will show him to
you in the stable. You must learn to ride. You'll find riding-clothes
in your room, I think. I recommend an excellent teacher in Sue. Good-by,
and don't get thrown.”
“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 leggings, etc., entered. Four names were
whirling over and over in his brain ever since they had been first
mentioned. Four names--Sis, Waterbury, Garrison, and Crimmins. He
did not know whey they should keep recurring with such maddening
persistency. And yet how familiar they all seemed!
Crimmins eyed him askance as he entered.
“Goin' for a canter, sir? Ho, yuss; this 'ere is the 'orse the master
said as 'ow you were to ride, sir. It don't matter which side yeh
get on. 'E's as stiddy-goin' as a alarum clock. Ho, yuss. I calls 'im
Waterbury Watch--partly because I 'appen to 'ave a brother wot's trainer
for Mr. Waterbury, the turfman, sir.”
Crimmins shifted his cud with great satisfaction at this uninterrupted
flow of loquacity and brilliant humor. Garrison was looking the animal
over instinctively, his hands running from hock to withers and back
again.
“How old is he?” he asked absently.
“Three years, sir. Ho, yuss. Thoroughbred. Cast-off from the Duryea
stable. By Sysonby out of Hamburg Belle. Won the Brighton Beach
overnight sweepstakes in nineteen an' four. Ho, yuss. Just a little off
his oats, but a bloomin' good 'orse.”
Garrison turned, speaking mechanically. “I wonder do you think I'm a
fool! Sysonby himself won the Brighton sweepstakes in nineteen-four.
It was the beginning of his racing career, and an easy win. This animal
here is a plug; an out-and-out plug of the first water. He never
saw Hamburg Belle or Sysonby--they never mated. This plug's a
seven-year-old, and he couldn't do seven furlongs in seven weeks. He
never was class, and never could be. I don't want to ride a cow, I want
a horse. Give me that two-year-old black filly with the big shoulders.
Whose is she?”
Crimmins shifted the cud again to hide his astonishment 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.
“Have to wear blinkers, sir.”
“No, I won't. 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.
“Cripes!” ejaculated the veracious Crimmins, as wide-eyed he watched the
filly fling gravel down the drove, “'e's got a seat like Billy Garrison
himself. 'E can ride, that kid. An' 'e knows 'orse-flesh. Blimy if 'e
don't! If Garrison weren't down an' out I'd be ready to tyke my Alfred
David it were 'is bloomin' self. An' I thought 'e was a dub! Ho,
yuss--me!”
Moralizing on the deceptiveness of appearances, 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 cantered 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, eyeing 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. “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 you 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 long, heart-breaking stride
that eats up the ground. The girl's laugh floated back tantalizingly
over her shoulder. Garrison hunched in the saddle, a smile on his lips.
He knew the quality of the flesh under him, and that it would not be
absent at the call.
“Tote in behind, girlie. He got the jump on you. That's it. Nip his
heels.” The seconds flew by like the trees; the big poplar rushed up.
“Now, now. Make a breeze, make a breeze,” sang out Garrison at the
quarter minute; and like a long, black streak of smoke the filly hunched
past the gelding, leaving it as if anchored. It was the old Garrison
finish which had been track-famous once upon a time, and as Garrison
eased up his hard-driven mount a queer feeling of exultation swelled his
heart; a feeling which he could not quite understand.
“Could I have been a jockey once?” he kept asking 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 ride. We were
even up on weight.”
“And so you think I cannot ride properly!” added the girl quietly,
arranging her wind-blown hair.
“Oh, yes. But women can't really ride class, you know. It isn't in
them.”
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 indifferent 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----”
“I dare say,” she echoed dryly. “Possibly the dark, clinging kind.”
He eyed her wonderingly, but she was looking very innocently at the
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 moment to go
into the smoking-car. And who do you think should be sitting opposite
me, two seats ahead, but--Who do you think?” Again she turned and held
his eyes.
“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
annoyed by a beast of a man, when Mr. Garrison got up, ordered the beast
out of the seat beside me, and occupied it himself, saying it was his.
It was done so beautifully. And he did not try to take advantage of his
courtesy in the least. And then guess what happened.” Still her eyes
held his.
“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 Garrison, 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
mane at a great rate. “It was all a mistake, of course. I wonder--I
wonder if--if he held it against me!”
“Oh, very likely he's forgotten all about it long ago,” said Garrison
cheerfully.
She bit her lip and was silent. “I wonder,” she resumed, at length, “if
he would like me to apologize and thank him--” She broke off, glancing
at him shyly.
“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 understand. 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 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? You've nothing to
be ashamed of. You should be proud of your record. I'm proud of it.
Proud--that--that--well, that I rode a race with you to-day. You're
hiding your identity; afraid of what your uncle and aunt might
say--afraid of that Carter Handicap affair. As if we didn't know you
always rode as straight as a string.” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes
flashing.
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 identity. I am not Garrison.”
Her gray eyes bored into his. “You really mean that--Billy?”
“I do.”
“On your word of honor? By everything you hold most sacred? Take your
time in answering.”
“It wouldn't matter if I waited till the resurrection. I can't change
myself. I'm not Garrison. Faith of a gentleman, I'm not. Honestly, Sue.”
He laughed a little nervously.
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 Garrison. 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 double. 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 identity from your relatives. So I made occasion
to steal it from the book your aunt was about to read. Remember? It was
the leaf she thought the major had abstracted.”
“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 Calvert 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 smiling in a way that made Garrison vaguely
uncomfortable.