A BREATH OF THE OLD LIFE.
Major Calvert's really interested desire to see his pseudo nephew
astride a mount afforded Garrison the legitimate opportunity of keeping
clear of Mr. Waterbury for the next few days. The track was situated
some three miles from Calvert House--a modern racing-stable in every
sense of the word--and early the next morning Garrison started forth,
accompanied by the indefatigable major.
Curiosity was stirring in the latter's heart. He had long been searching
for a fitting rider for the erratic and sensitive Dixie--whimsical and
uncertain of taste as any woman--and though he could not bring himself
to believe in Crimmins' eulogy of Garrison's riding ability, he was
anxious to ascertain how far the trainer had erred.
Crimmins was not given to airing his abortive sense of humor overmuch,
and he was a sound judge of horse and man. If he was right--but the
major had to laugh at such a possibility. Garrison to ride like that!
He who had confessed he had never thrown a leg over a horse before! By a
freak of nature he might possess the instinct but not the ability.
Perhaps he even might possess the qualifications of an exercise-boy; he
had the build--a stripling who possessed both sinew and muscle, but who
looked fatty tissue. But the major well knew that it is one thing
to qualify as an exercise-boy and quite another to toe the mark as a
jockey. For the former it is only necessary to have good hands, a good
seat in the saddle, and to implicitly obey a trainer's instructions. No
initiative is required. But it is absolutely essential that a boy
should own all these adjuncts and many others--quickness of perception,
unlimited daring, and alertness to make a jockey. No truer summing up
of the necessary qualifications is there than the old and famous “Father
Bill” Daly's doggerel and appended note:
“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 possessed both, but the scheduled situation of the
Calvert stables rendered the secret “trying out” of racers before track
entry unnecessary. It is only fair to state that if Major Calvert had
left his trainer to his own judgment his stable would have made a better
showing than it had. But the major's disposition and unlimited time
caused him more often than not to follow the racing paraphrase: “Dubs
butt in where trainers fear to tread.”
He was so enthusiastic and ignorant over horses that he insisted upon
campaigns that had only the merit of good intentions to recommend
them. Some highly paid trainers throw up their positions when their
millionaire owners assume the role of dictator, but Crimmins very seldom
lost his temper. The major was so boyishly good-hearted and bull-headed
that Crimmins had come to view his master's racing aspirations almost as
an expensive joke.
However, it seemed that the Carter Handicap and the winning by his
very good friend and neighbor, Colonel Desha, had stuck firmly in
Major Calvert's craw. He promised to faithfully follow his trainer's
directions and leave for the nonce the preparatory training entirely in
his hands.
It was decided now that Garrison should try out the fast black filly
Dixie, just beginning training for the Carter. She had a hundred and
twenty-five pounds of grossness to boil down before making track weight,
but the opening spring handicap was five months off, and Crimmins
believed in the “slow and sure” adage. Major Calvert, his old
weather-beaten duster fluttering in the wind, took his accustomed perch
on the rail, while Garrison prepared to get into racing-togs.
The blood was pounding in Garrison's heart as he lightly swung up on the
sleek black filly. The old, nameless longing, the insistent thought
that he had done all this before--to the roar of thousands of
voices--possessed him.
Instinctively he understood his mount; her defects, her virtues.
Instinctively he sensed that she was not a “whip horse.” A touch of the
whalebone and she would balk--stop dead in her stride. He had known such
horses before, generally fillies.
As soon as Garrison's feet touched stirrups all the condensed, colossal
knowledge of track and horse-flesh, gleaned by the sweating labor of
years, came tingling to his finger-tips. Judgment, instinct, daring,
nerve, were all his; at his beck and call; serving their master. He felt
every inch the veteran he was--though he knew it not. It was not a freak
of nature. He had worked, worked hard for knowledge, and it would not be
denied. He felt as he used to feel before he had “gone back.”
Garrison took Dixie over the seven furlongs twice, and in a manner,
despite her grossness, the mare had never been taken before. She ran
as easily, as relentlessly, without a hitch or break, as fine-spun silk
slips through a shuttle. She was high-strung, sensitive to a degree, but
Garrison understood her, and she answered his knowledge loyally.
It was impressive riding to those who knew the filly's irritability,
uncertainty. Clean-cut veteran horsemanship, with horse and rider as
one; a mechanically precise pace, heart-breaking for a following field.
The major slowly climbed off the rail, mechanically eyeing his watch. He
was unusually quiet, but there was a light in his eyes that forecasted
disaster for his very good friend and neighbor, Colonel Desha, and The
Rogue. It is even greater satisfaction, did we but acknowledge it, to
turn the tables on a friend than on a foe.
“Boy,” he said impressively, laying a hand on Garrison's shoulder and
another on Dixie's flank, “I've been looking for some one to ride Dixie
in the Carter--some one who could ride; ride and understand. I've found
that some one in my nephew. You'll ride her--ride as no one else can.
God knows how you learned the game--I don't. But know it you do. Nor do
I pretend to know how you understand the filly. I don't understand it at
all. It must be a freak of nature.”
“Ho, yuss!” added Crimmins quietly, his eye on the silent Garrison. “Ho,
yuss! It must be a miracle. But I tell you, major, it ain't no miracle.
It ain't. That boy 'as earned 'is class. 'E could understand any 'orse.
'E's earned 'is class. It don't come to a chap in the night. 'E's got to
slave f'r it--slave 'ard. Ho, yuss! Your neffy can ride, an' 'e can s'y
wot 'e likes, but if 'e ain't modeled on Billy Garrison 'isself, then
I'm a bloomin' bean-eating Dutchman! 'E's th' top spit of Garrison--th'
top spit of 'im, or may I never drink agyn!”
There was sincerity, good feeling, and force behind 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?”
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 overflowing abundance. That was enough. Besides, his nephew's word
was his bond. He would as soon think of doubting the Bible.
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 mutual passion for
horse-flesh. And if the acid little cockney suspected that Garrison had
ever carried a jockey's license or been track-bred, he respected the
other's silence, and refrained from broaching the question again.
Meanwhile, to all appearances, things were running in the harmonious
groove over at the Desha home. Since the night of Mr. Waterbury's
arrival Sue had not mentioned the subject of the overdrawn balance, and
the colonel had not. If the girl thought her father guilty of a slight
breach of honor, no hint of it was conveyed either in speech or manner.
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 offerings were tendered in
subdued silence fitting to the occasion, but Sue always lauded them to
the skies. Nor would she let him see that she understood the contrition
working in him. To Colonel Desha she was no longer “my little girl,” but
“my daughter.” Very often we only recognize another's right and might by
being in the wrong and weak ourselves.
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 gentleman. He had not intended that Sue should
be party to them, but that night of the confession they had caught him
unawares. And he played the host to Mr. Waterbury as only a Southern
gentleman can.
That the turfman had motives other than mere friendship and regard
when proffering his advice and financial assistance, the colonel never
suspected. It was a further manifestation of his childish streak and
his ignorance of his fellow man. His great fault was in estimating
his neighbor by his own moral code. It had never occurred to him that
Waterbury loved Sue, and that he had forced his assistance while helping
to create the necessity for that assistance, merely as a means of
lending some authority to his suit. But Waterbury possessed many likable
qualities; he had stood friend to Colonel Desha, whatever his motives,
and the latter honored him on his own valuation.
Fear never would have given the turfman the entrée to the Desha
home; only friendship. Down South hospitality is sacred. When one has
succeeded in entering a household he is called kin. A mutual trust and
bond of honor exist between host and guest. The mere formula; “So-and-So
is my guest,” is a clean bill of moral health. Therefore, in whatever
light Sue may have regarded Mr. Waterbury, her treatment of him was
uniformly courteous and kindly.
Necessarily they saw much of each other. The morning rides, formerly
with Garrison, were now taken with Mr. Waterbury. This was owing partly
to the former's close application to the track, partly to the courtesy
due guest from hostess whose father is busily engaged, and in the main
to a concrete determination on Sue's part. This intimacy with Sue Desha
was destined to work a change in Waterbury.
He had come unworthy to the Desha home. He acknowledged that to himself.
Come with the purpose of compelling his suit, if necessary. His love
had been the product of his animalistic nature. It was a purely sensual
appeal. He had never known the true interpretation of love; never
experienced the society of a womanly woman. But it is in every nature
to respond to the highest touch; to the appeal of honor. When trust
is reposed, fidelity answers. It did its best to answer in Waterbury's
case. His better self was slowly awakening.
Those days were wonderful, new, happy days for Waterbury. He was
received on the footing of guest, good comrade. He was fighting to
cross the line, searching for the courage necessary--he who had
watched without the flicker of an eyelash a fortune lost by an inch of
horse-flesh. And if the girl knew, she gave no sign.
As for Garrison, despite his earnest attention to the track, those were
unhappy days for him. He thought that he had voluntarily given up Sue's
society; given it up for the sake of saving his skin; for the fear of
meeting Waterbury. Time and time again he determined to face the turfman
and learn the worst. Cowardice always stepped in. Presently Waterbury
would leave for the North, and things then would be as they had been.
He hated himself for his cowardice; for his compromise with
self-respect. It was not that he valued Sue's regard so lightly. Rather
he feared to lose the little he had by daring all. He did not know that
Sue had given him up. Did not know that she was hurt, mortally hurt;
that her renunciation had not been necessary; that he had not given her
the opportunity. He had stayed away, and she wondered. There could
be but the one answer. He must hate this tie between them; this
parent-fostered engagement. He was thinking of the girl he had left
up North. Perhaps it was better for her, she argued, that she had
determined upon renunciation.
Obviously Major Calvert and his wife noticed the breach in the
Garrison-Desha entente cordiale. They credited it to some childish
quarrel. They were wise in their generation. Old heads only muddle young
hearts. To confer the dignity of age upon the differences of youth but
serves to turn a mole-hill into a mountain.
But one memorable evening, when the boyish and enthusiastic major and
Garrison returned from an all-day session at the track, they found Mrs.
Calvert in a very quiet and serious mood, which all the major's cajolery
could not penetrate. And after dinner she and the major had a peace
conference in the library, at the termination of which the doughty
major's feathers were considerably agitated.
Mrs. Calvert's good nature was not the good nature of the faint-hearted
or weak-kneed. She was never at loss for words, nor the spirit to back
them when she considered conditions demanded them. Subsequently, when
his wife retired, the major, very red in the face, called Garrison into
the room.
“Eh, demmit, boy,” he began, fussing up and down, “I've noticed, of
course, that you and Sue don't pull in the same boat. Now, I thought it
was due to a little tiff, as soon straightened as tangled, when pride
once stopped goading you on. But your aunt, boy, has other ideas on the
subject which she had been kindly imparting to me. And it seems that
I'm entirely to blame. She says that I've caused you to neglect Sue for
Dixie. Eh, boy, is that so?” He paused, eyeing Garrison in distress.
“No, it is not,” said Garrison heavily. “It is entirely my fault.”
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 something back of
it. Well, you must go over to-night and straighten it out. These little
tiffs have to be killed early--like spring chickens. Sue has her dander
up, I tell you. She met your aunt to-day. Said flatly that she had
broken the engagement; that it was final--”
“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, remember never to compete for the right with a woman. Women
are always right. Man shouldn't be his own press-agent. It's woman's
position--and delight. She values man on her own valuation--not his.
Women are illogical--that's why they marry us.”
The major concluded his advice by giving Garrison a hearty thump on the
back. Then he prepared to charge his wife's boudoir; to resume the peace
conference with right on his side for the nonce.
Garrison slowly made his way down-stairs. His face was set. He knew his
love for Sue was hopeless; an absurdity, a crime. But why had she broken
the engagement? Had Waterbury said anything? He would go over and face
Waterbury; face him and be done with it. He was reckless, desperate.
As he descended the wide veranda steps a man stepped from behind a
magnolia-tree shadowing the broad walk. A clear three-quarter moon was
riding in the heavens, and it picked out Garrison's thin set face.
The man swung up, and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hello, Bud!”
It was Dan Crimmins.