Maybe I’ve gone back.  Maybe I’m all in.  Maybe I’m a crook.  But there’ll come a time, it may be one year, it may be a hundred, when I’ll come back—­clean.  I’ll make good, and if you’re on the track, Red, I’ll show you that Garrison can ride a harder, straighter race than you or any one.  This isn’t my finish.  There’s a new deal coming to me, and I’m going to see that I get it.”

Without heeding Red’s pessimistic reply.  Garrison turned on his heel and entered the stall where Sis, the Carter Handicap favorite, was being boxed for the coming Belmont opening.

Crimmins, the trainer, looked up sharply as Garrison entered.  He was a small, hard man, with a face like an ice-pick and eyes devoid of pupils, which fact gave him a stony, blank expression.  In fact, he had been likened once, by Jimmy Drake, to a needle with two very sharp eyes, and the simile was merited.  But he was an excellent flesh handler; and Waterbury, an old ex-bookie, knew what he was about when he appointed him head of the stable.

“Hello, Dan!” said Garrison, in the same tone he had used to greet Red.  He and the trainer had been thick, but it was a question whether that thickness would still be there.  Garrison, alone in the world since he had run away from his home years ago, had no owner as most jockeys have, and Crimmins had filled the position of mentor.  In fact, he had trained him, though Garrison’s riding ability was not a foreign graft, but had been bred in the bone.

“Hello!” echoed Crimmins, coming forward.  His manner was cordial, and Garrison’s frozen heart warmed.  “Of course you’ll quit the game,” ran on the trainer, after an exchange of commonalities.  “You’re queered for good.  You couldn’t get a mount anywhere.  I ain’t saying anything about your pulling Sis, ’cause there ain’t no use now.  But you’ve got me and Mr. Waterbury in trouble.  It looked as if we were in on the deal.  I should be sore on you, Garrison, but I can’t be.  And why?  Because Dan Crimmins has a heart, and when he likes a man he likes him even if murder should come ’atween.  Dan Crimmins ain’t a welcher.  You’ve done me as dirty a deal as one man could hand another, but instead of getting hunk, what does Dan Crimmins do?  Why, he agitates his brain thinking of a way for you to make a good living, Bud.  That’s Dan Crimmins’ way.”

Garrison was silent.  He did not try to vindicate himself.  He had given that up as hopeless.  He was thinking, oblivious to Crimmins’ eulogy.

“Yeh,” continued the upright trainer; “that’s Dan Crimmins’ way.  And after much agitating of my brain I’ve hit on a good money-making scheme for you, Bud.”

“Eh?” asked Garrison.

“Yeh.”  And the trainer lowered his voice.  “I know a man that’s goin’ to buck the pool-rooms in New York.  He needs a chap who knows the ropes—­one like you—­and I gave him your name.  I thought it would come in handy.  I saw your finish a long way off.  This fellah’s in the Western Union; an operator with the pool-room lines.  You can run the game.  It’s easy.  See, he holds back the returns, tipping you the winners, and you skin round and lay the bets before he loosens up on the returns.  It’s easy money; easy and sure.”