“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 class.  ’E could understand any ’orse.  ’E’s earned ’is class.  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.

“Come, haven’t you ridden before, eh?” he asked good-humoredly.  “It’s no disgrace, boy.  Is it hard-won science, as Crimmins says, or merely an unbelievable and curious freak of nature, eh?”

Garrison looked the major in the eye.  His heart was pounding.

“If I’ve ever ridden a mount before—­I’ve never known it,” he said, with conviction and truth.

Crimmins shook his head in hopeless despair.  The major was too enthusiastic to quibble over how the knowledge was gained.  It was there in overflowing abundance.  That was enough.  Besides, his nephew’s word was his bond.  He would as soon think of doubting the Bible.

For the succeeding days Garrison and the major haunted the track.  It was decided that the former should wear his uncle’s colors in the Carter, and he threw himself into the training of Dixie with all his painstaking energy and knowledge.

He proved a valuable adjunct to Crimmins; rank was waived in the stables, and a sincere regard sprang up between master and man, based on the fundamental qualities of real manhood and a mutual passion for horse-flesh.  And if the acid little cockney suspected that Garrison had ever carried a jockey’s license or been track-bred, he respected the other’s silence, and refrained from broaching the question again.

Meanwhile, to all appearances, things were running in the harmonious groove over at the Desha home.  Since the night of Mr. Waterbury’s arrival Sue had not mentioned the subject of the overdrawn balance, and the colonel had not.  If the girl thought her father guilty of a slight breach of honor, no hint of it was conveyed either in speech or manner.

She was broad-minded—­the breadth and depth of perfect health and a clean heart.  If she set up a high standard for herself, it was not to measure others by.  The judgment of man entered into no part of her character; least of all, the judgment of a parent.

As for the colonel, it was apparent that he was not on speaking terms with his conscience.  It made itself apparent in countless foolish little ways; in countless little means of placating his daughter—­a favorite book, a song, a new saddle.  These votive offerings were tendered in subdued silence fitting to the occasion, but Sue always lauded them to the skies.  Nor would she let him see that she understood the contrition working in him.  To Colonel Desha she was no longer “my little girl,” but “my daughter.”  Very often we only recognize another’s right and might by being in the wrong and weak ourselves.