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 imagination.
Could it be possible that Billy Garrison and he were one and the same?
And then that incident of the train. Surely he had heard it before,
somewhere in the misty long ago. It seemed, too, as if it had occurred
coincidently with the moment he had first looked into those gray eyes.
He laughed nervously to himself.
“If I was Garrison, whoever he was, I wonder what kind of a person I
was! They speak of him as if he had been some one--And then Mrs. Calvert
said he had disappeared. Perhaps I am Garrison.”
Nervously he brought forth the page from the race-track annual Sue had
given him, and studied it intently. “Yes, it does look like me. But it
may be only a double; a coincidence.” He racked his brain for a stray
gleam of retrospect, but it was not forthcoming. “It's no use,” he
sighed wearily, “my life began when I left the hospital. And if I was
Garrison, surely I would have been recognized by some one in New York.
“Hold on,” he added eagerly, “I remember the first day I was out a man
caught me by the arm on Broadway and said: 'Hello, Billy!' Let me think.
This Garrison's name was Billy. The initials on my underwear were W.
G.--might be William Garrison instead of the William Good I took. But if
so, how did I come to be in the hospital without a friend in the world?
The doctors knew nothing of me. Haven't I any parents or relatives--real
relatives, not the ones I am imposing on?”
He sat on the bed endeavoring to recall some of his past life; even the
faintest gleam. Then absently he turned over the photograph he held. On
the reserve side of the leaf was the record of Billy Garrison. Garrison
studied it eagerly.
“Born in eighty-two. Just my age, I guess--though I can't swear how old
I am, for I don't know. Stable-boy for James R. Keene. Contract bought
by Henry Waterbury. Highest price ever paid for bought-up contract.
H'm! Garrison was worth something. First win on the Gravesend track when
seventeen. A native of New York City. H'm! Rode two Suburban winners;
two Brooklyn Handicaps; Carter Handicap; the Grand Prix, France; the
Metropolitan Handicap; the English Derby--Oh, shucks! I never did all
those things; never in God's world,” he grunted wearily. “I wouldn't be
here if I had. It's all a mistake. I knew it was. Sue was kidding me.
And yet--they say the real Billy Garrison has disappeared. That's funny,
too.”
He took a few restless paces about the room. “I'll go down and pump
the major,” he decided finally. “Maybe unconsciously he'll help me
to remember. I'm in a fog. He ought to know Garrison. If I am Billy
Garrison--then by my present rank deception I've queered a good record.
But I know I'm not. I'm a nobody. A dishonest nobody to boot.”
Major Calvert was seated by his desk in the great old-fashioned library,
intently scanning various racing-sheets and the multitudinous data of
the track. A greater part of his time went to the cultivation of his one
hobby--the track and horses--for by reason of his financial standing,
having large cotton and real-estate holdings in the State, he could
afford to use business as a pastime.
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.
A friendly rivalry had long existed between his neighbor and friend,
Colonel Desha, and himself in the matter of horse-flesh. The colonel was
from Kentucky--Kentucky origin--and his boast was that his native State
could not be surpassed either in regard to the quality of its horses
or women. And, though chivalrous, the colonel always mentioned “women”
last.
“Just look at Rogue and my daughter, Sue, suh,” he was wont to say with
pardonable pride. “Thoroughbreds 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 always 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 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 winning class in her try-outs, and her owner
watched her like a hawk, satisfaction in his heart, biding the time when
he might at last show Kentucky that her sister State, Virginia, could
breed a horse or two.
“I'll keep Dixie's class a secret,” he was wont to chuckle to himself,
as, perched on the rail in all sorts of weather, he clicked off her
time. “I think it is the Carter my learned friend will endeavor to
capture again. I'm sure Dixie can give Rogue five seconds in seven
furlongs--and a beating. That is, of course,” he always concluded, with
good-humored vexation, “providing the colonel doesn't pick up in New
York an animal that can give Dixie ten seconds. He has a knack of going
from better to best.”
Now Major Calvert glanced up with a smile as Garrison entered.
“I thought you were in bed, boy. Leave late hours to age. You're
looking better these days. I think Doctor Blandly's open-air physic
is first-rate, eh? By the way, Crimmins tells me you were out on Midge
to-day, and that you ride--well, like Billy Garrison himself. Of course
he always exaggerates, but you didn't say you could ride at all. Midge
is a hard animal.” He eyed Garrison with some curiosity. “Where did you
learn to ride? I thought you had had no time nor means for it.”
“Oh, I merely know a horse's tail from his head,” laughed Garrison
indifferently. “Speaking of Garrison, 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
anything I've left undone--”
“You've been more than kind,” blurted out Garrison uncomfortably. “More
than good--uncle.” He was hating himself. He could not meet the major's
kindly eyes.
“Tut, tut, my boy, no fine speeches. Apropos of this Garrison, why are
you so interested in him? Wish to emulate him, eh? Yes, I've seen him
ride, but only once, when he was a bit of a lad. I fancy Colonel Desha
is the one to give you his merits. You know Garrison's old owner, Mr.
Waterbury, is returning with the colonel. He will be his guest for a
week or so.”
“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 interest in horses,
and Crimmins tells me you have an eye for class, you rascal, come out
to the track with me to-morrow. I've got a filly which I think will give
the colonel's Rogue a hard drive. You know, if the colonel enters for
the next Carter, I intend to contest it with him--and win.” He chuckled.
“Then you don't know anything about this Garrison?” persisted Garrison
slowly.
“Nothing more than I've said. He was a first-class boy in his time. A
boy I'd like to have seen astride of Dixie. Such stars come up quickly
and disappear as suddenly. The life's against them, unless they possess
a hard head. But Mr. Waterbury, when he arrives, can, I dare say, give
you all the information you wish. By the way,” he added, a twinkle in
his eye, “what do you think of the colonel's other thoroughbred? I mean
Miss Desha?”
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 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 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
accident.” He opened the desk-drawer and handed a square envelope to
Garrison, who took it mechanically. “No doubt you've a good many friends
up North,” added the major kindly. “Have 'em down here for as long as
they can stay. Calvert House is open night and day. I do not want you
to think that because you are here you have to give up old friends. I'm
generous enough to share you with them, but--no elopements, mind.”
“I think it's merely a business letter,” replied Garrison indifferently,
hiding his burning curiosity. He did not know who his correspondent
could possibly be. Something impelled him to wait until he was alone in
his room before opening it. It was from the eminent lawyer, Theobald D.
Snark.
“BELOVED IMPOSTOR: '_Ars longa, vita brevis_,' as the philosopher has
truly said, which in the English signifies that I cannot afford to wait
for the demise of the reverend and guileless major before I garner the
second fruits of my intelligence. Ten thousand is a mere pittance in
New York--one's appetite develops with cultivation, and mine has been
starved for years--and I find I require an income. Fifty a week or
thereabouts will come in handy for the present. I know you have access
to the major's pocketbook, it being situated on the same side as his
heart, and I will expect a draft by following mail. He will be glad to
indulge the sporting blood of youth. If I cannot share the bed of roses,
I can at least fatten on the smell. I would have to be compelled to tell
the major what a rank fraud and unsurpassed liar his supposed nephew
is. So good a liar that he even imposed upon me. Of course I thought you
were the real nephew, and it horrifies me to know that you are a fraud.
But, remember, silence is golden. If you feel any inclination of getting
fussy, remember that I am a lawyer, and that I can prove I took your
claim in good faith. Also, the Southerners are notoriously hot-tempered,
deplorably addicted to firearms, and I don't think you would look a
pretty sight if you happened to get shot full of buttonholes.”
The letter was unsigned, typewritten, and on plain paper. But Garrison
knew whom it was from. It was the eminent lawyer's way not to place
damaging evidence in the hands of a prospective enemy.
“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.”