"Ho, yuss!" added Crimmins quietly, his eye on the silent Garrison. "Ho,
yuss! It must be a miracle. But I tell you, major, it ain't no miracle.
It ain't. That boy 'as earned 'is class. 'E could understand any 'orse.
'E's earned 'is class. It don't come to a chap in the night. 'E's got to
slave f'r it--slave 'ard. Ho, yuss! Your neffy can ride, an' 'e can s'y
wot 'e likes, but if 'e ain't modeled on Billy Garrison 'isself, then
I'm a bloomin' bean-eating Dutchman! 'E's th' top spit of Garrison--th'
top spit of 'im, or may I never drink agyn!"

There was sincerity, good feeling, and force behind the declaration, and
the major eyed Garrison intently and with some curiosity.

"Come, haven't you ridden before, eh?" he asked good-humoredly. "It's
no disgrace, boy. Is it hard-won science, as Crimmins says, or merely an
unbelievable and curious freak of nature, eh?"

Garrison looked the major in the eye. His heart was pounding.

"If I've ever ridden a mount before--I've never known it," he said, with
conviction and truth.

Crimmins shook his head in hopeless despair. The major was too
enthusiastic to quibble over how the knowledge was gained. It was there
in overflowing abundance. That was enough. Besides, his nephew's word
was his bond. He would as soon think of doubting the Bible.

For the succeeding days Garrison and the major haunted the track. It was
decided that the former should wear his uncle's colors in the Carter,
and he threw himself into the training of Dixie with all his painstaking
energy and knowledge.