Garrison's Finish Part 13

Sue practically managed the entire house, looking after the servants, expenses, and all, but the colonel always referred to her as "my little girl." He was under the amiable delusion that time had left her at the ten-mile mark, never to return.

This was one of but many defects in his vision. He was oblivious of materialistic facts. He was innocent of the ways of finance. He had come of a prodigal race of spenders, not acc.u.mulators. Away back somewhere in the line there must have existed what New Englanders term a "good provider," but that virtue had not descended from father to son. The original vast Desha estates decreased with every generation, seldom a descendant making even a spasmodic effort to replenish them. There was always a mortgage or sale in progress. Sometimes a lucrative as well as love-marriage temporarily increased the primal funds, but more often the opposite was the case.

The Deshas, like all true Southerners, believed that love was the only excuse for marriage; just as most Northerners believe that labor is the only excuse for living. And so the colonel, with no business incentive, ac.u.men, or adaptability, and with the inherited handicap of a luxurious living standard, made a brave onslaught on his patrimony.

What the original estate was, or to what extent the colonel had encroached upon it, Sue never rightly knew. She had been brought up in the old faith that a Southerner is lord of the soil, but as she developed, the fact was forced home upon her that her father was not materialistic, and that ways and means were.

Twice yearly their Kentucky estate yielded an income. As soon as she understood affairs, Sue took a stand which could not be shaken, even if the easy-going mooning colonel had exerted himself to that extent. She insisted upon using one-half the yearly income for household expenses; the other the colonel could fritter away as he chose upon his racing-stable and his secondary hobby--an utterly absurd stamp collection.

Only each household knows how it meets the necessity of living. It is generally the mother and daughter, if there be one, who comprise the inner finance committee. Men are only Napoleons of finance when the market is strong and steady. When it becomes panicky and fluctuates and resolves itself into small unheroic deals, woman gets the job. For the world is princ.i.p.ally a place where men work for the pleasures and woman has to cringe for the sc.r.a.ps. It may seem unchivalrous, but true nevertheless.

Only Sue knew how she compelled one dollar to bravely do the duty of two. Appearances are never so deceitful as in the household where want is apparently scorned. Sue was of the breed who, if necessary, could raise absolute pauperism to the peerage. And if ever a month came in which she would lie awake nights, developing the further elasticity of currency, certainly her neighbors knew aught of it, and her father least of all.

The colonel recommenced his pacing. Sue, hands clasped around knees, watched him with steady, unwinking eyes.

"It's not the deviled crab, daddy," she said quietly, at length. "It's something else. 'Fess up. You're in trouble. I feel it. Sit down there and let me go halves on it. Sit down."

Colonel Desha vaguely pa.s.sed a hand through his hair, then, mechanically yielding to the superior strength and self-control of his daughter, eased himself into an opposite armchair.

"Oh, no, you're quite wrong, quite wrong," he reiterated absently. "I'm only tired. Only tired, girlie. That's all. Been very busy, you know."

And he ran on feverishly, talking about Waterbury, weights, jockeys, mounts--all the jargon of the turf. The dam of his mind had given way, and a flood of thoughts, hopes, fears came rioting forth unchecked, unthinkingly.

His eyes were vacant, a frown dividing his white brows, the thin hand on the table closing and relaxing. He was not talking to his daughter, but to his conscience. It was the old threadbare, tattered tale--sp.a.w.n of the G.o.ddess fortune; a thing of misbegotten hopes and desires.

The colonel, swollen with the winning of the Carter Handicap, had conceived the idea that he was possessor of a G.o.d-given knowledge of the "game." And there had been many to sustain that belief. Now, the colonel might know a horse, but he did not know the law of averages, of chance, nor did he even know how his fellow man's heart is fashioned. Nor that track fortunes are only made by bookies or exceptionally wealthy or brainy owners; that a plunger comes out on top once in a million times.

That the track, to live, must bleed "suckers" by the thousand, and that he, Colonel Desha, was one of the bled.

He was on the wrong side of the table. The Metropolitan, Brooklyn, Suburban, Brighton, Futurity, and a few minor meets served to swamp the colonel. What Waterbury had to do with the case was not clear. The colonel had taken his advice time and time again only to lose. But the Kentucky estate had been sold, and Mr. Waterbury held the mortgage of the Desha home. And then, his mind emptied of its poison, the colonel slowly came to himself.

"What--what have I been saying?" he cried tensely. He attempted a laugh, a denial; caught his daughter's eyes, looked into them, and then buried his face in his quivering hands.

Sue knelt down and raised his head.

"Daddy, is that--all?" she asked steadily.

He did not answer. Then, man as he was, the blood came sweeping to face and neck.

"I mean," added the girl quietly, her eyes, steady but very kind, holding his, "I had word from the National this morning saying that our account, the--the balance, was overdrawn--"

"Yes--I drew against it," whispered Colonel Desha. He would not meet her eyes; he who had looked every man in the face. The fire caught him again. "I had to, girlie, I had to," he cried over and over again. "I intended telling you. We'll make it up a hundred times over. It was my only chance. It's all up on the books--up on The Rogue. He'll win the Carter as sure as there's a G.o.d in heaven. It's a ten-thousand stake, and I've had twenty on him--the balance--your balance, girlie. I can pay off Waterbury--" The fire died away as quickly. Somehow in the stillness of the room, against the look in the girl's eyes, words seemed so pitifully futile, so blatant, so utterly trivial.

Sue's face was averted, eyes on floor, hands tensely clasping those of her father. Absolute stillness held the room. The colonel was staring at the girl's bent head.

"It's--it's all right, girlie. All right, don't fret," he murmured thickly. "The Rogue will win--bound to win. You don't understand--you're only a girl--only a child----"

"Of course, Daddy," agreed Sue slowly, wide-eyed. "I'm only a child. I don't understand."

But she understood more than her father. She was thinking of Billy Garrison.

CHAPTER IX.

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 b.u.t.t 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 a.s.sume 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.

G.o.d 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 cla.s.s. 'E could understand any 'orse.

'E's earned 'is cla.s.s. 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.