It wouldn't do at all. First, because their own position was so precarious that a breath would send it tottering. Secondly, because Billy might happen to inconveniently remember all the sums of money he had “loaned” them time and again. Actual necessity might tend to waken his memory. For they had modernized the proverb into: “A friend in need is a friend to steer clear of.”
A lesson in mankind and the making had been coming to Garrison, and in that short walk down Broadway he appreciated it to the uttermost.
“Think I had the mange or the plague,” he mused grimly, as a plethoric ex-alderman passed and absent-mindedly forgot to return his bow--an alderman who had been tipped by Garrison in his palmy days to a small fortune. “What if I had thrown the race?” he ran on bitterly. “Many a jockey has, and has lived to tell it. No, there's more behind it all than that. I've passed sports who wouldn't turn me down for that. But I suppose Bender” (the plethoric alderman) “staked a pot on Sis, she being the favorite and I up. And when he loses he forgets the times I tipped him to win. Poor old Sis!” he added softly, as the fact of her poisoning swept over him. “The only thing that cared for me--gone! I'm down on my luck--hard. And it's not over yet. I feel it in the air. There's another fall coming to me.”
He shivered through sheer nervous exhaustion, though the night was warm for mid-April. He rummaged in his pocket.
“One dollar in bird-seed,” he mused grimly, counting the coins under the violet glare of a neighboring arc light. “All that's between me and the morgue. Did I ever think it would come to that? Well, I need a bracer. Here goes ten for a drink. Can only afford bar whisky.”
He was standing on the corner of Twenty-fifth Street, and unconsciously he turned into the café of the Hoffman House. How well he knew its every square inch! It was filled with the usual sporting crowd, and Garrison entered as nonchalantly as if his arrival would merit the same commotion as in the long ago. He no longer cared. His depression had dropped from him. The lights, the atmosphere, the topics of conversation, discussion, caused his blood to flow like lava through his veins. This was home, and all else was forgotten. He was not the discarded jockey, but Billy Garrison, whose name on the turf was one to conjure with.