Garrison's Finish Part 21

"The colonel is a wreck mentally and physically; living on nerve. I've agreed to put the finishing touches on The Rogue, and he, knowing my ability and facilities, has permitted me. It's all in my hands--pretty near. Now, Red McGloin is up on the Morgan entry--Swallow. He used to be a stable-boy for Waterbury. I guess you've heard of him. He's developed into a first-cla.s.s boy. But I want to see you lick the hide off him. The fight will lie between you and him. I know the rest of the field--"

"But Speedaway?" cried Garrison, jumping to his feet. "Jimmie--you! It's too great a sacrifice; too great, too great. I know how you've longed to win the Carter; what it means to you; how you have slaved to earn it. Jimmie--Jimmie--don't tempt me. You can't mean you've scratched Speedaway!"

"Just that, kid," said Drake grimly. "The first scratch in my life--and the last. Speedaway? Well, she and I will win again some other time.

Some time, kid, when we ain't playing against a man's life and a girl's happiness. I'll scratch for those odds. It's for you, kid--you and the girl. Remember, you're carrying her colors, her life.

"You'll have a good fight--but fight as you never fought before; as you never hope to fight again. Cottonton will watch you, kid. Don't shame them; don't shame me. Show 'em what you're made of. Show Red that a former stable-boy, no matter what cla.s.s he is now, can't have the licking of a former master. Show 'em a has-been can come back. Show 'em what Garrison stands for. Show 'em your finish, kid--I'll ask no more.

And you'll carry Jimmie Drake's heart--Oh, fuss! I can't tell a yarn, nohow."

In silence Garrison gripped Drake's hand. And if ever a mighty resolution was welded in a human heart--a resolution born of love, everything; one that nothing could deny--it was born that moment in Garrison's. Born as the tears stood in his eyes, and, man as he was, he could not keep up; nor did he shame his manhood by denying them. "Kid, kid," said Drake.

CHAPTER XV.

GARRISON'S FINISH.

It was April 16. Month of budding life; month of hope; month of spring when all the world is young again; when the heart thaws out after its long winter frigidity. It was the day of the opening of the Eastern racing season; the day of the Carter Handicap.

Though not one of the "cla.s.sics," the Carter annually draws an attendance of over ten thousand; ten thousand enthusiasts who have not had a chance to see the ponies run since the last autumn race; those who had been unable to follow them on the Southern circuit. Women of every walk of life; all sorts and conditions of men. Enthusiasts glad to be out in the life-giving sunshine of April; panting for excitement; full to the mouth with volatile joy; throwing off the shackles of the business treadmill; discarding care with the ubiquitous umbrella and winter flannels; taking fortune boldly by the hand; returning to first principles; living for the moment; for the trial of skill, endurance, and strength; staking enough in the balances to bring a fillip to the heart and the blood to the cheek.

It was a typical American crowd; long-suffering, giving and taking--princ.i.p.ally giving--good-humored, just. All morning it came in a seemingly endless chain; uncoupling link by link, only to weld together again. All morning long, ferries, trolleys, trains were jammed with the race-mad throng. Coming by devious ways, for divers reasons; coming from all quarters by every medium; centering at last at the Queen's County Jockey Club.

And never before in the history of the Aqueduct track had so thoroughly a representative body of racegoers a.s.sembled at an opening day. Never before had Long Island lent sitting and standing room to so impressive a gathering of talent, money, and family. Every one interested in the various phases of the turf was there, but even they only formed a small portion of the attendance.

Rumors floated from paddock to stand and back again. The air was surcharged with these wireless messages, bearing no signature nor guarantee of authenticity. And borne on the crest of all these rumors was one--great, paramount. Garrison, the former great Garrison, had come back. He was to ride; ride the winner of the last Carter, the winner of a fluke race.

The world had not forgotten. They remembered The Rogue's last race. They remembered Garrison's last race. The wise ones said that The Rogue could not possibly win. This time there could be no fluke, for the great Red McGloin was up on the favorite. The Rogue would be shown in his true colors--a second-rater.

Speculation was rife. This Carter Handicap presented many, many features that kept the crowd at fever-heat. Garrison had come back. Garrison had been reinstated. Garrison was up on a mount he had been accused of permitting to win last year. Those who wield the muck-rake for the sake of general filth, not in the name of justice, shook their heads and lifted high hands to Heaven. It looked bad. Why should Garrison be riding for Colonel Desha? Why had Jimmie Drake transferred him at the eleventh hour? Why had Drake scratched Speedaway? Why had Major Calvert scratched Dixie? The latter was an outsider, but they had heard great things of her.

"Cooked," said the muck-rakers wisely, and, thinking it was a show-down for the favorite, stacked every cent they had on Swallow. No long shots for them.

And some there were who cursed Drake and Major Calvert; cursed long and intelligently--those who had bet on Speedaway and Dixie, bet on the play-or-pay basis, and now that the mounts were scratched, they had been bitten. It was entirely wrong to tempt Fortune, and then have her turn on you. She should always be down on the "other fellow"--not you.

And then there were those, and many, who did not question, who were glad to know that Garrison had come back on any terms. They had liked him for himself. They were the weak-kneed variety who are stanch in prosperity; who go with the world; coincide with the world's verdict. The world had said Garrison was crooked. If they had not agreed, they had not denied.

If Garrison now had been reinstated, then the world said he was honest.

They agreed now--loudly; adding the old shibboleth of the moral coward: "I told you so." But still they doubted that he had "come back." A has-been can never come back.

The conservative element backed Morgan's Swallow. Red McGloin was up, and he was proven cla.s.s. He had stepped into Garrison's niche of fame.

He was the popular idol now. And, as Garrison had once warned him, he was already beginning to pay the price. The philosophy of the exercise boy had changed to the philosophy of the idol; the idol who cannot be pulled down. And he had suffered. He had gone through part of what Garrison had gone through, but he also had experienced what the latter's inherent cleanliness had kept him from.

Temptation had come Red's way; come strong without reservation. Red, with the hunger of the long-denied, with the unrestricted appet.i.te of the intellectually low, had not discriminated. And he had suffered. His trainer had watched him carefully, but youth must have its fling, and youth had flung farther than watching wisdom reckoned.

Red had not gone back. He was young yet. But the first flush of his manhood had gone; the cream had been stolen. His nerve was just a little less than it had been; his eye and hand a little less steady; his judgment a little less sound; his initiative, daring, a little less paramount. And races have been won and lost, and will be won and lost, when that "little Less" is the deciding breath that tips the scale.

But he had no misgivings. Was he not the idol? Was he not up on Swallow, the favorite? Swallow, with the odds--two to one--on. He knew Garrison was to ride The Rogue. What did that matter? The Rogue was ten to one against. The Rogue was a fluke horse. Garrison was a has-been. The track says a has-been can never come back. Of course Garrison had been to the dogs during the past year--what down-and-out jockey has not gone there? And if Drake had transferred him to Desha, it was a case of good riddance. Drake was famous for his eccentric humor. But he was a sound judge of horse-flesh. No doubt he knew what a small chance Speedaway had against Swallow, and he had scratched advisedly; playing the Morgan entry instead.

In the grand stand sat three people wearing a blue and gold ribbon--the Desha colors. Occasionally they were reinforced by a big man, who circulated between them and the paddock. The latter was Jimmie Drake.

The others were "Cottonton," as the turfman called them. They were Major and Mrs. Calvert and Sue Desha.

Colonel Desha was not there. He was eating his heart out back home. The nerve he had been living on had suddenly snapped at the eleventh hour.

He was denied watching the race he had paid so much in every way to enter. The doctors had forbidden his leaving. His heart could not stand the excitement; his const.i.tution could not meet the long journey North.

And so alone, propped up in bed, he waited; waited, counting off each minute; more excited, wrought up, than if he had been at the track.

It had been arranged that in the event of The Rogue winning, the good news should be telegraphed to the colonel the moment the gelding flashed past the judges' stand. He had insisted on that and on his daughter being present. Some member of the family must be there to back The Rogue in his game fight. And so Sue, in company with the major and his wife, had gone.

She had taken little interest in the race. She knew what it meant, no one knew better than she, but somehow she had no room left for care to occupy. She was apathetic, listless; a striking contrast to the major and his wife, who could hardly repress their feelings. They knew what she would find at the Aqueduct track--find the world. She did not.

All she knew was that Drake, whom she liked for his rough, patent manhood, had very kindly offered the services of his jockey; a jockey whom he had faith in. Who that jockey was, she did not know, nor overmuch care. A greater sorrow had obliterated her racing pa.s.sion; had even ridden roughshod over the fear of financial ruin. Her mind was numb.

For days succeeding Drake's statement to her that Garrison was not married she waited for some word from him. Drake had explained how Garrison had thought he was married. He had explained all that. She could never forget the joy that had swamped her on hearing it; even as she could never forget the succeeding days of waiting misery; waiting, waiting, waiting for some word. He had been proven honest, proven Major Calvert's nephew, proven free. What more could he ask? Then why had he not come, written?

She could not believe he no longer cared. She could not believe that; rather, she would not. She gaged his heart by her own. Hers was the woman's portion--inaction. She must still wait, wait, wait. Still she must eat her heart out. Hers was the woman's portion. And if he did not come, if he did not write--even in imagination she could never complete the alternative. She must live in hope; live in hope, in faith, in trust, or not at all.

Colonel Desha's enforced absence overcame the one difficulty Major Calvert and Jimmie Drake had acknowledged might prematurely explode their hidden ident.i.ty mine. The colonel, exercising his owner's prerogative, would have fussed about The Rogue until the last minute.

Of course he would have interviewed Garrison, giving him riding instructions, etc. Now Drake a.s.sumed the right by proxy, and Sue, after one eager-whispered word to The Rogue, had a.s.sumed her position in the grand stand.

Garrison was up-stairs in the jockey's quarters of the new paddock structure, the lower part of which is reserved for the clerical force, and so she had not seen him. But presently the word that Garrison was to ride flew everywhere, and Sue heard it. She turned slowly to Drake, standing at her elbow, his eyes on the paddock.

"Is it true that a jockey called Garrison is to ride to-day?" she asked, a strange light in her eyes. What that name meant to her!

"Why, yes, I believe so, Miss Desha," replied Drake, delightfully innocent. "Why?"

"Oh," she said slowly. "How--how queer! I mean--isn't it queer that two people should have the same name? I suppose this one copied it; imitation being the sincerest form of flattery. I hope he does the name justice. Do you know him? He is a good rider? What horse is he up on?"

Drake, wisely enough, chose the last question. "A ten-to-one shot," he replied illuminatingly. "Perhaps you'll bet on him, Miss Desha, eh? It's what we call a hunch--coincidence or anything like that. Shall I place a bet for you?"

The girl's eyes kindled strangely. Then she hesitated.

"But--but I can't bet against The Rogue. It would not be loyal."

Mrs. Calvert laughed softly.

"There are exceptions, dear." In a low aside she added: "Haven't you that much faith in the name of Garrison? There, I know you have. I would be ashamed to tell you how much the major and I have up on that name.

And you know I never bet, as a rule. It is very wrong."

And so Sue, the blood in her cheeks, handed all her available cash to Drake to place on the name of Garrison. She would pretend it was the original. Just pretend.

"Here they come," yelled Drake, echoed by the rippling shout of the crowd.

The girl rose, white-faced; striving to pick out the blue and gold of the Desha stable.

And here they came, the thirteen starters; thirteen finished examples of G.o.d and man's handicraft. Speed, endurance, skill, nerve, grit--all were there. Horse and rider trained to the second. Bone, muscle, sinew, cla.s.s. And foremost of the string came Swallow, the favorite, Red McGloin, confidently smiling, sitting with the conscious ease of the idol who has carried off the past year's Brooklyn Handicap.

Good horses there were; good and true. There were Black Knight and Scapegrace, Rightful and Happy Lad, Bean Eater and Emetic--the latter the great sprinter who was bracketed with Swallow on the book-maker's sheets. Mares, fillies, geldings--every offering of horse-flesh above three years. All striving for the glory and honor of winning this great sprint handicap. The monetary value was the lesser virtue. Eight thousand dollars for the first horse; fifteen hundred for the second; five hundred for the third. All striving to be at least placed within the money--placed for the honor and glory and standing.

Last of all came The Rogue, black, lean, dangerous. Trained for the fight of his life from muzzle to clean-cut hoofs. Those hoofs had been cared for more carefully than the hands of any queen; packed every day in the soft, velvety red clay brought all the way from the Potomac River.