Red was knocking out his shabby heels against the box in an agony of confusion.  Then he grew emboldened by the other’s dejected mien.  “No, I’d never throw no race,” he said judicially.  “It don’t pay—­”

“Red,” broke in Garrison harshly, “you don’t believe I threw that race?  Honest, I’m square.  Why, I was up on Sis—­Sis whom I love, Red—­honest, I was sure of the race.  Dead sure.  I hadn’t much money, but I played every cent I had on her.  I lost more than any one.  I lost—­everything.  See,” he ran on feverishly, glad of the opportunity to vindicate himself, if only to a stable-boy.  “I guess the stewards will let the race stand, even if Waterbury does kick.  Rogue won square enough.”

“Yeh, because yeh choked Sis off in th’ stretch.  She could ha’ slept home a winner, an’ yeh know it, Billy,” said Red, with sullen regret.

There was a time when he never would have dared to call Garrison by his Christian name.  Disgrace is a great leveler.  Red grew more conscious of his own rectitude.

“I ain’t knockin’ yeh, Billy,” he continued, speaking slowly, to lengthen the pleasure of thus monopolizing the pulpit.  “What have I to say?  Yeh can ride rings round any jockey in the States—­at least, yeh could.”  And then, like his kind, Red having nothing to say, proceeded to say it.

“But it weren’t your first thrown race, Billy.  Yeh know that.  I know how yeh doped it out.  I know we ain’t got much time to make a pile if we keep at th’ game.  Makin’ weight makes yeh a lunger.  We all die of th’ hurry-up stunt.  An’ yeh’re all right to your owner so long’s yeh make good.  After that it’s twenty-three, forty-six, double time for yours.  I know what th’ game is when you’ve hit th’ top of th’ pile.  It’s a fast mob, an’ yeh got to keep up with th’ band-wagon.  You’re makin’ money fast and spendin’ it faster.  Yeh think it’ll never stop comin’ your way.  Yeh dip into everythin’.  Then yeh wake up some day without your pants, and yeh breeze about to make th’ coin again.  There’s a lot of wise eggs handin’ out crooked advice—­they take the coin and you th’ big stick.  Yeh know, neither Crimmins or the Old Man was in on your deals, but yeh had it all framed up with outside guys.  Yeh bled the field to soak a pile.  See, Bill,” he finished eloquently, “it weren’t your first race.”

“I know, I know,” said Garrison grimly.  “Cut it out.  You don’t understand, and it’s no good talking.  When you have reached the top of the pile, Red, you’ll travel with as fast a mob as I did.  But I never threw a race in my life.  That’s on the level.  Somehow I always get blind dizzy in the stretch, and it passed when I crossed the post.  I never knew when it was coming on.  I felt all right other times.  I had to make the coin, as you say, for I lived up to every cent I made.  No, I never threw a race—­Yes, you can smile, Red,” he finished savagely.  “Smile if your face wants stretching.  But that’s straight.