Here Crimmins carefully selected a variety of adjectives with which to
decorate the turfman. He also spoke freely about the other's ancestors,
and concluded with voicing certain dark convictions regarding Mr.
Waterbury's future.

Garrison listened blankly. "What's all this to me?" he asked sharply. "I
don't know you nor Mr. Waterbury."

"Hell you don't!" rapped out Crimmins. "Quit that game. I may have done
things against you, but I've paid for them. You can't touch me on that
count, but I can touch you, for I know you ain't the major's nephew--no
more than the Sheik of Umpooba. I'm ashamed of you. Tryin' on a game
like that with your old trainer, who knows you--"

Garrison caught him fiercely by the arm. His old trainer! Then he was
Billy Garrison. Memory was fighting furiously. He was on fire. "Billy
Garrison, Billy Garrison, Billy Garrison," he repeated over and over,
shaking Crimmins like a reed. "Go on, go on, go on," he panted. "Tell me
what you know about me. Go on, go on. Am I Garrison? Am I? Am I?"

Then, holding the other as in a vise, the thoughts that had been
writhing in his mind for so long came hurtling forth. At last here was
some one who knew him. His old trainer. What better friend could he
need?

He panted in his frenzy. The words came tripping over one another,
smothering, choking. And Crimmins with set face listened; listened as
Garrison went over past events; events since that memorable morning he
had awakened in the hospital with the world a blank and the past a blur.