“I guess I don’t forget Jimmy Drake,” he mused grimly to himself.  “He’s straight cotton.  The only one who didn’t give me the double-cross out and out.  Bud, Bud!” he declared to himself, “this is sure the wind-up.  You’ve struck bed-rock and the tide’s coming in—­hard.  You’re all to the weeds.  Buck up, buck up,” he growled savagely, in fierce contempt.  “What’re you dripping about?” He had caught a tear burning its way to his eyes—­eyes that had never blinked under Waterbury’s savage blows.  “What if you are ruled off!  What if you are called a liar and crook; thrown the game to soak a pile?  What if you couldn’t get a clotheshorse to run in a potato-race?  Buck up, buck up, and plug your cotton pipe.  They say you’re a crook.  Well, be one.  Show ’em you don’t care a damn.  You’re down and out, anyway.  What’s honesty, anyway, but whether you got the goods or ain’t?  Shake the bunch.  Get out before you’re kicked out.  Open a pool-room like all the has-beens and trim the suckers right, left, and down the middle.  Money’s the whole thing.  Get it.  Don’t mind how you do, but just get it.  You’ll be honest enough for ten men then.  Anyway, there’s no one cares a curse how you pan out—­”

He stopped, and his face slowly relaxed.  The hard, vindictive look slowly faded from his narrowed eyes.

“Sis,” he said softly.  “Sis—­I was going without saying good-by.  Forgive me.”

He swung on his heel, and with hunched shoulders made his way back to Aqueduct.  Waterbury’s training-quarters were adjacent, and, after lurking furtively about like some hunted animal, Garrison summoned all his nerve and walked boldly in.

The only stable-boy about was one with a twisted mouth and flaming red hair, which he was always curling; a remarkably thin youth he was, addicted to green sweaters and sentimental songs.  He was singing one now in a key entirely original with himself.  “Red’s” characteristic was that when happy he wore a face like a tomb-stone.  When sad, the sentimental songs were always in evidence.

“Hello, Red!” said Garrison gruffly.  He had been Red’s idol once.  He was quite prepared now, however, to see the other side of the curtain.  He was no longer an idol to any one.

“Hello!” returned Red non-committally.

“Where’s Crimmins?”

“In there.”  Red nodded to the left where were situated the stalls.  “Gettin’ Sis ready for the Belmont opening.”

“Riding for him now?”

“Yeh.  Promised a mount in th’ next run-off.  ’Bout time, I guess.”

There was silence.  Garrison pictured to himself the time when he had won his first mount.  How long ago that was!  Time is reckoned by events, not years.  How glorious the future had seemed!  He slowly seated himself on a box by the side of Red and laid a hand on the other’s thin leg.

“Kid,” he said, and his voice quivered, “you know I wish you luck.  It’s a great game—­the greatest game in the world, if you play it right.”  He blundered to silence as his own condition surged over him.