Again Garrison was silent.  But now a smile was on his face.  He had been asking himself what was the use of honesty.

“What d’you say?” asked Crimmins, his head on one side, his small eyes calculating.

The smile was still twisting Garrison’s lip.  “I was going to light out, anyway,” he answered slowly.  “I’ll answer you when I say good-by to Sis.”

“All right.  She’s over there.”

The handlers fell back in silence as Garrison approached the filly.  He was softly humming the music-hall song, “Good-by, Sis.”  With all his faults, the handlers to a man liked Garrison.  They knew how he had professed to love the filly, and now they sensed that he would prefer to say his farewell without an audience.  Sis whinnied as Garrison raised her small head and looked steadily into her soft, dark eyes.

“Sis,” he said slowly, “it’s good-by.  We’ve been pals, you and I; pals since you were first foaled.  You’re the only girl I have; the only sweetheart I have; the only one to say good-by to me.  Do you care?”

The filly nuzzled at his shoulder.  “I’ve done you dirt to-day,” continued the boy a little unsteadily.  “It was your race from the start.  You know it; I know it.  I can’t explain now, Sis, how it came about.  But I didn’t go to do it.  I didn’t, girlie.  You understand, don’t you?  I’ll square that deal some day, Sis.  I’ll come back and square it.  Don’t forget me.  I won’t forget you—­I can’t.  You don’t think me a crook, Sis?  Say you don’t.  Say it,” he pleaded fiercely, raising her head.

The filly understood.  She lipped his face, whinnying lovingly.  In a moment Garrison’s nerve had been swept away, and, arms flung about the dark, arched neck, he was sobbing his heart out on the glossy coat; sobbing like a little child.

How long he stayed there, the filly nuzzling him like a mother, he did not know.  It seemed as if he had reached sanctuary after an aeon of chaos.  He had found love, understanding in a beast of the field.  Where his fellow man had withheld, the filly had given her all and questioned not.  For Sis, by Rex out of Reine, two-year filly, blooded stock, was a thoroughbred.  And a thoroughbred, be he man, beast, or bird, does not welch on his hand.  A stranger only in prosperity; a chum in adversity.  He does not question; he gives.

“Well,” said Crimmins, as Garrison slowly emerged from the stall, “you take the partin’ pretty next your skin.  What’s your answer to the game I spoke of?  Mulled it over?  It don’t take much thinking, I guess.”  He was paring his mourning fringed nails with great indifference.

“No, it doesn’t take much thinking, Dan,” agreed Garrison slowly, his eyes narrowed.  “I’ll rot first before I touch it.”

“Yes?” The trainer raised his thick eyebrows and lowered his thin voice.  “Kind of tony, ain’t yeh?  Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“They needn’t be crooks, Dan.  I know you meant it all right enough,” said Garrison bitterly.  “You think I’m crooked, and that I’d take anything—­anything; dirt of any kind, so long’s there’s money under it.”