knowledge of track and horse-flesh, gleaned by the sweating labor of
years, came tingling to his finger-tips. Judgment, instinct, daring,
nerve, were all his; at his beck and call; serving their master. He felt
every inch the veteran he was--though he knew it not. It was not a freak
of nature. He had worked, worked hard for knowledge, and it would not be
denied. He felt as he used to feel before he had "gone back."

Garrison took Dixie over the seven furlongs twice, and in a manner,
despite her grossness, the mare had never been taken before. She ran
as easily, as relentlessly, without a hitch or break, as fine-spun silk
slips through a shuttle. She was high-strung, sensitive to a degree, but
Garrison understood her, and she answered his knowledge loyally.

It was impressive riding to those who knew the filly's irritability,
uncertainty. Clean-cut veteran horsemanship, with horse and rider as
one; a mechanically precise pace, heart-breaking for a following field.
The major slowly climbed off the rail, mechanically eyeing his watch. He
was unusually quiet, but there was a light in his eyes that forecasted
disaster for his very good friend and neighbor, Colonel Desha, and The
Rogue. It is even greater satisfaction, did we but acknowledge it, to
turn the tables on a friend than on a foe.

"Boy," he said impressively, laying a hand on Garrison's shoulder and
another on Dixie's flank, "I've been looking for some one to ride Dixie
in the Carter--some one who could ride; ride and understand. I've found
that some one in my nephew. You'll ride her--ride as no one else can.
God knows how you learned the game--I don't. But know it you do. Nor do
I pretend to know how you understand the filly. I don't understand it at
all. It must be a freak of nature."