GARRISON'S FINISH, A ROMANCE OF THE RACE-COURSE


by W. B. M. Ferguson




CHAPTER I.

A SHATTERED IDOL.

As he made his way out of the paddock Garrison carefully tilted his
bag of Durham into the curved rice-paper held between nicotine-stained
finger and thumb, then deftly rolled his "smoke" with the thumb and
forefinger, while tying the bag with practised right hand and even white
teeth. Once his reputation had been as spotless as those teeth.

He smiled cynically as he shouldered his way through the slowly moving
crowd--that kaleidoscope of the humanities which congregate but do not
blend; which coagulate wherever the trial of science, speed, and stamina
serves as an excuse for putting fortune to the test.

It was a cynical crowd, a quiet crowd, a sullen crowd. Those who had
won, through sheer luck, bottled their joy until they could give it vent
in a safer atmosphere--one not so resentful. For it had been a hard day
for the field. The favorite beaten in the stretch, choked off, outside
the money----

Garrison gasped as the rushing simulacra of the Carter Handicap surged