Again Garrison laughed harshly, puffing at his cigarette, dragging its fumes into his lungs in a fierce desire to finish his physical cataclysm with his moral. Yes, it had been his last chance. He, the popular idol, had been going lower and lower in the scale, but the sporting world had been loyal, as it always is to “class.” He had been “class,” and they had stuck to him.
Then when he began to go back--No; worse. Not that. They said he had gone crooked. That was it. Crooked as Doyers Street, they said; throwing every race; standing in with his owner to trim the bookies, and they couldn't stand for that. Sport was sport. But they had been loyal. They had warned, implored, begged. What was the use soaking a pile by dirty work? Why not ride straight--ride as he could, as he did, as it had been bred in him to? Any money, any honor was his. Instead--
Garrison, stung to madness by retrospect, humped his way through the crowd at the gates of the Aqueduct. There was not a friendly eye in that crowd. He stuffed his ears with indifference. He would not bear their remarks as they recognized him. He summoned all his nerve to look them in the face unflinchingly--that nerve that had been frayed to ribbons.
And then he heard quick footsteps behind him; a hand was laid heavily on his shoulder, and he was twisted about like a chip. It was his stable owner, his face flushed with passion and drink. Waterbury was stingy of cash, but not of words.
“I've looked for you,” he whipped out venomously, his large hands ravenous for something to rend. “Now I've caught you. Who was in with you on that dirty deal? Answer, you cur! Spit it out before the crowd. Was it me? Was it me?” he reiterated in a frenzy, taking a step forward for each word, his bad grammar coming equally to the fore.
The crowd surged back. Owner and jockey were face to face. “When thieves fall out!” they thought; and they waited for the fun. Something was due them. It came in a flash. Waterbury shot out his big fist, and little Garrison thumped on the turf with a bang, a thin streamer of blood threading its way down his gray-white face.
“You miserable little whelp!” howled his owner. “You've dishonored me. You threw that race, damn you! That's what I get for giving you a chance when you couldn't get a mount anywhere.” His long pent-up venom was unleashed. “You threw it. You've tried to make me party to your dirty work--me, me, me!”--he thumped his heaving chest. “But you can't heap your filth on me. I'm done with you. You're a thief, a cur--”