"And what is a cad?" he asked abstractedly.
"One who shames his birth and position by his breeding."
"And no question of dishonesty enters into it?" He could not say why he asked. "It is not, then, a matter of moral ethics, but of mere-- well----"
"Sensitiveness," she finished dryly. "I really think I prefer rank dishonesty, if it is offset by courtesy and good breeding. You see, I am not at all moral."
Here Mrs. Calvert made her appearance, with a and sunshade. She was a woman whom a sunshade completed.
"I hope you two have not been quarreling," she observed. "It is too nice a day for that. I was watching the slaughter of the innocents on the tennis-court. Really, you play a wretched game, William."
"So I have been informed," replied Garrison. "It is quite a relief to have so many people agree with me for once."
"In this instance you can believe them," commented the girl. She turned to Mrs. Calvert. "Whose ravings are you going to listen to now?" she asked, taking the Mrs. Calvert carried.
"A matter of duty," laughed the older woman. "No; it's not a It came this morning. The major wishes me to assimilate it and impart to him its nutritive elements--if it contains any. He is so miserably busy--doing nothing, as usual. But it is a labor of love. If we women are denied children, we must interest ourselves in other things."
"Oh!" exclaimed the girl, with interest; "it's the years record of the track!" She was thumbing over the leaves. "I'd love to read it! May I when you've done? Thank you. Why, here's Sysonby, Gold Heels, The Picket--dear old Picket! Kentucky's pride! And here's Sis. Remember Sis? The Carter Handicap--"
She broke off suddenly and turned to the silent Garrison. "Did you go much to the track up North?" She was looking straight at him.
"I--I--that is--why, yes, of course," he murmured vaguely. "May I see it?"
He took the from her unwilling hand. A full-page photograph of Sis was confronting him. He studied it long and carefully, passing a troubled hand nervously over his forehead.
"I--I think I've seen her," he said, at length, looking up vacantly. "Somehow, she seems familiar."
Again he fell to studying the graceful lines of the thoroughbred, oblivious of his audience.
"She is a Southern horse," commented Mrs. Calvert. "Rather she was. Of course you-all heard of her poisoning? It never said whether she recovered. Do you know?"
Garrison glanced up quickly, and met Sue Desha's unwavering stare.
"Why, I believe I did hear that she was poisoned, or something to that effect, now that you mention it." His eyes were still vacant.
"You look as if you had seen a ghost," laughed Sue, her eyes on the magnolia-tree.
He laughed somewhat nervously. "I--I've been thinking."
"Is the major going in for the Carter this year?" asked the girl, turning to Mrs. Calvert. "Who will he run--Dixie?"
"I think so. She is the logical choice." Mrs. Calvert was nervously prodding the gravel with her sunshade. "Sometimes I wish he would give up all ideas of it."
"I think father is responsible for that. Since Rogue won the last Carter, father is horse-mad, and has infected all his neighbors."
"Then it will be friend against friend," laughed Mrs. Calvert. "For, of course, the colonel will run Rogue again this year--"
'I--I don't think so." The girl's face was sober. "That is," she added hastily, "I don't know. Father is still in New York. I think his initial success has spoiled him. Really, he is nothing more than a big child." She laughed affectedly. Mrs. Calvert's quiet, keen eyes were on her.
"Racing can be carried to excess, like everything," said the older woman, at length. "I suppose the colonel will bring home with him this Mr. Waterbury you were speaking of?"
The girl nodded. There was silence, each member of the trio evidently engrossed with thoughts that were of moment.
Mrs. Calvert was idly thumbing over the race-track annual. "Here is a page torn out," she observed absently. "I wonder what it was? A thing like that always piques my curiosity. I suppose the major wanted it for reference. But then he hasn't seen the yet. I wonder who wanted it? Let me--yes, it's ended here. Oh, it must have been the photograph and record of that jockey, Billy Garrison! Remember him? What a brilliant career he had! One never hears of him nowadays. I wonder what became of him?"
"Billy Garrison?" echoed Garrison slowly, "Why--I--I think I've heard of him--"
He was cut short by a laugh from the girl. "Oh, you're good! Why, his name used to be a household word. You should have heard it. But, then, I don't suppose you ever went to the track. Those who do don't forget."
Mrs. Calvert walked slowly away. "Of course you'll stay for lunch, Sue," she called back. "And a canter might get up an appetite. William, I meant to tell you before this that the major has reserved a horse for your use. He is mild and thoroughly broken. Crimmins will show him to you in the stable. You must learn to ride. You'll find riding-clothes in your room, I think. I recommend an excellent teacher in Sue. Good-by, and don't get thrown."
"Are you willing?" asked the girl curiously.
Garrison's heart was pounding strangely. His mouth was dry. "Yes, yes," he said eagerly.
The tight-faced cockney, Crimmins, was in the stable when Garrison, in riding-breeches, puttee leggings, etc., entered. Four names were whirling over and over in his brain ever since they had been first mentioned. Four names--Sis, Waterbury, Garrison, and Crimmins. He did not know whey they should keep recurring with such maddening persistency. And yet how familiar they all seemed!
Crimmins eyed him askance as he entered.
"Goin' for a canter, sir? Ho, yuss; this 'ere is the 'orse the master said as 'ow you were to ride, sir. It don't matter which side yeh get on. 'E's as stiddy-goin' as a alarum clock. Ho, yuss. I calls 'im Waterbury Watch--partly because I 'appen to 'ave a brother wot's trainer for Mr. Waterbury, the turfman, sir."
Crimmins shifted his cud with great satisfaction at this uninterrupted flow of loquacity and brilliant humor. Garrison was looking the animal over instinctively, his hands running from hock to withers and back again.
"How old is he?" he asked absently.
"Three years, sir. Ho, yuss. Thoroughbred. Cast-off from the Duryea stable. By Sysonby out of Hamburg Belle. Won the Brighton Beach overnight sweepstakes in nineteen an' four. Ho, yuss. Just a little off his oats, but a bloomin' good 'orse."
Garrison turned, speaking mechanically. "I wonder do you think I'm a fool! Sysonby himself won the Brighton sweepstakes in nineteen-four. It was the beginning of his racing career, and an easy win. This animal here is a plug; an out-and-out plug of the first water. He never saw Hamburg Belle or Sysonby--they never mated. This plug's a seven-year-old, and he couldn't do seven furlongs in seven weeks. He never was class, and never could be. I don't want to ride a cow, I want a horse. Give me that two-year-old black filly with the big shoulders. Whose is she?"
Crimmins shifted the cud again to hide his astonishment at Garrison's sudden /savoir-faire/.
"She's wicked, sir. Bought for the missus, but she ain't broken yet."
"She hasn't been handled right. Her mouth's hard, but her temper's even. I'll ride her," said Garrison shortly.
"Have to wear blinkers, sir."
"No, I won't. Saddle her. Hurry up. Shorten the stirrup. There, that's right. Stand clear."
Crimmins eyed Garrison narrowly as he mounted. He was quite prepared to run with a clothes-basket to pick up the remains. But Garrison was up like a feather, high on the filly's neck, his shoulders hunched. The minute he felt the saddle between his knees he was at home again after a long, long absence. He had come into his birthright.
The filly quivered for a moment, laid back her ears, and then was off.
"Cripes!" ejaculated the veracious Crimmins, as wide-eyed he watched the filly fling gravel down the drove, " 'e's got a seat like Billy Garrison himself. 'E can ride, that kid. An' 'e knows 'orse-flesh. Blimy if 'e don't! If Garrison weren't down an' out I'd be ready to tyke my Alfred David it were 'is bloomin' self. An' I thought 'e was a dub! Ho, yuss--me!"
Moralizing on the deceptiveness of appearances, Crimmins fortified himself with another slab of cut-plug.
Miss Desha, up on a big bay gelding with white stockings, was waiting on the Logan Pike, where the driveway of Calvert House swept into it.
"Do you know that you're riding Midge, and that she's a hard case?" she said ironically, as they cantered off together. "I'll bet you're thrown. Is she the horse the major reserved for you? Surely not."
"No," said Garrison plaintively, "they picked me out a cow--a nice, amiable cow; speedy as a traction-engine, and with as much action. This is a little better."
The girl was silent, eyeing him steadily through narrowed lids.
"You've never ridden before?"
"Um-m-m," said Garrison; "why, yes, I suppose so." He laughed in sudden joy. "It feels so good," he confided.
"You remind me of a person in a dream," she said, after a little, still watching him closely. "Nothing seems real to you--your past, I mean. You only think you have done this and that."
He was silent, biting his lip.
"Come on, I'll race you," she cried suddenly. "To that big poplar down there. See it? About two furlongs. I'll give you twenty yards' start. Don't fall off."
"I gave, never took, handicaps." The words came involuntarily to Garrison's surprise. "Come on; even up," he added hurriedly. "Ready?"
"Yes. Let her out."
The big bay gelding was off first, with the long, heart-breaking stride that eats up the ground. The girl's laugh floated back tantalizingly over her shoulder. Garrison hunched in the saddle, a smile on his lips. He knew the quality of the flesh under him, and that it would not be absent at the call.
"Tote in behind, girlie. He got the jump on you. That's it. Nip his heels." The seconds flew by like the trees; the big poplar rushed up. "Now, now. Make a breeze, make a breeze," sang out Garrison at the quarter minute; and like a long, black streak of smoke the filly hunched past the gelding, leaving it as if anchored. It was the old Garrison finish which had been track-famous once upon a time, and as Garrison eased up his hard-driven mount a queer feeling of exultation swelled his heart; a feeling which he could not quite understand.
"Could I have been a jockey once?" he kept asking himself over and over. "I wonder could I have been! I wonder!"
The next moment the gelding had ranged up alongside.
"I'll bet that was close to twenty-four, the track record," said Garrison unconsciously. "Pretty fair for dead and lumpy going, eh? Midge is a comer, all right. Good weight-carrying sprinter. I fancy that gelding. Properly ridden he would have given me a hard ride. We were even up on weight."
"And so you think I cannot ride properly!" added the girl quietly, arranging her wind-blown hair.
"Oh, yes. But women can't really ride class, you know. It isn't in them."
She laughed a little. "I'm satisfied now. You know I was at the Carter Handicap last year."
"Yes?" said Garrison, unmoved. He met her eyes fairly.
"Yes, you know Rogue, father's horse, won. They say Sis, the favorite, had the race, but was pulled in the stretch." She was smiling a little.
"Indeed?" murmured Garrison, with but indifferent interest.
She glanced at him sharply, then fell to pleating the gelding's mane. "Um-m-m," she added softly. "Billy Garrison, you know, rode Sis."
"Oh, did he?"
"Yes. And, do you know, his seat was identical with yours?" She turned and eyed him steadily.
"I'm flattered."
"Yes," she continued dreamily, the smile at her lips; "it's funny, of course, but Billy Garrison used to be my hero. We silly girls all have one."
"Oh, well," observed Garrison, "I dare say any number of girls loved Billy Garrison. Popular idol, you know----"
"I dare say," she echoed dryly. "Possibly the dark, clinging kind."
He eyed her wonderingly, but she was looking very innocently at the peregrinating chipmunk.
"And it was so funny," she ran on, as if she had not heard his observation nor made one herself. "Coming home in the train from the Aqueduct the evening of the handicap, father left me for a moment to go into the smoking-car. And who do you think should be sitting opposite me, two seats ahead, but-- Who do you think?" Again she turned and held his eyes.
"Why--some long-lost girl-chum, I suppose," said Garrison candidly.
She laughed; a laugh that died and was reborn and died again in a throaty gurgle. "Why, no, it was Billy Garrison himself. And I was being annoyed by a beast of a man, when Mr. Garrison got up, ordered the beast out of the seat beside me, and occupied it himself, saying it was his. It was done so beautifully. And he did not try to take advantage of his courtesy in the least. And then guess what happened." Still her eyes held his.
"Why," answered Garrison vaguely, "er--let me see. It seems as if I had heard of that before somewhere. Let me see. Probably it got into the papers-- No, I cannot remember. It has gone. I have forgotten. And what did happen next?"
"Why, father returned, saw Mr. Garrison raise his hat in answer to my thanks, and, thinking he had tried to scrape an acquaintance with me, threw him out of the seat. He did not recognize him."
"That must have been a little bit tough on Garrison, eh?" laughed Garrison idly. "Now that you mention it, it seems as if I had heard it."
"I've always wanted to apologize to Mr. Garrison, though I do not know him--he does not know me," said the girl softly, pleating the gelding's mane at a great rate. "It was all a mistake, of course. I wonder--I wonder if--if he held it against me!"
"Oh, very likely he's forgotten all about it long ago," said Garrison cheerfully.
She bit her lip and was silent. "I wonder," she resumed, at length, "if he would like me to apologize and thank him--" She broke off, glancing at him shyly.
"Oh, well, you never met him again, did you?" asked Garrison. "So what does it matter? Merely an incident."
They rode a furlong in absolute silence. Again the girl was the first to speak. "It is queer," she moralized, "how fate weaves our lives. They run along in threads, are interwoven for a time with others, dropped, and then interwoven again. And what a pattern they make!"
"Meaning?" he asked absently.
She tapped her lips with the palm of her little gauntlet.
"That I think you are absurd."
"I?" He started. "How? Why? I don't understand. What have I done now?"
"Nothing. That's just it."
"I don't understand."
"No? Um-m-m, of course it is your secret. I am not trying to force a confidence. You have your own reasons for not wishing your uncle and aunt to know. But I never believed that Garrison threw the Carter Handicap. Never, never, never. I--I thought you could trust me. That is all."
"I don't understand a word--not a syllable," said Garrison restlessly. "What is it all about?"
The girl laughed, shrugging her shoulders. "Oh, nothing at all. The return of a prodigal. Only I have a good memory for faces. You have changed, but not very much. I only had to see you ride to be certain. But I suspected from the start. You see, I admit frankly that you once were my hero. There is only one Billy Garrison."
"I don't see the moral to the parable." He shook his head hopelessly.
"No?" She flushed and bit her lip. "William C. Dagget, you're Billy Garrison, and you know it!" she said sharply, turning and facing him. "Don't try to deny it. You are, are, are! I know it. You took that name because you didn't wish your relatives to know who you were. Why don't you 'fess up? What is the use of concealing it? You've nothing to be ashamed of. You should be proud of your record. I'm proud of it. Proud--that--that--well, that I rode a race with you to-day. You're hiding your identity; afraid of what your uncle and aunt might say-- afraid of that Carter Handicap affair. As if we didn't know you always rode as straight as a string." Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes flashing.
Garrison eyed her steadily. His face was white, his breath coming hot and hard. Something was beating--beating in his brain as if striving to jam through. Finally he shook his head.
"No, you're wrong. It's a case of mistaken identity. I am not Garrison."
Her gray eyes bored into his. "You really mean that--Billy?"
"I do."
"On your word of honor? By everything you hold most sacred? Take your time in answering."
"It wouldn't matter if I waited till the resurrection. I can't change myself. I'm not Garrison. Faith of a gentleman, I'm not. Honestly, Sue." He laughed a little nervously.
Again her gray eyes searched his. She sighed. "Of course I take your word."
She fumbled in her bosom and brought forth a piece of paper, carefully smoothing out its crumpled surface. Without a word she handed it to Garrison, and he spread it out on his filly's mane. It was a photograph of a jockey--Billy Garrison. The face was more youthful, care-free. Otherwise it was a fair likeness.
"You'll admit it looks somewhat like you," said Sue, with great dryness.
Garrison studied it long and carefully. "Yes--I do," he murmured, in a perplexed tone. "A double. Funny, isn't it? Where did you get it?" She laughed a little, flushing.
"I was silly enough to think you were one and the same, and that you wished to conceal your identity from your relatives. So I made occasion to steal it from the your aunt was about to read. Remember? It was the leaf she thought the major had abstracted."
"I must thank you for your kindness, even though it went astray. May I have it?"
"Ye-es. And you are sure you are not the original?"
"I haven't the slightest recollection of being Billy Garrison," reiterated Billy Garrison, wearily and truthfully.
The ride home was mostly one of silence. Both were thinking. As they came within sight of Calvert House the girl turned to him:
"There is one thing you can do--ride. Like glory. Where did you more than learn?"
"Must have been born with me."
"What's bred in the bone will come out in the blood," she quoted enigmatically. She was smiling in a way that made Garrison vaguely uncomfortable.
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