“I gave, never took, handicaps.” The words came involuntarily to Garrison's surprise. “Come on; even up,” he added hurriedly. “Ready?”
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.”
“Yes. And, do you know, his seat was identical with yours?” She turned and eyed him steadily.
“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.”