for you, Bud."

"Eh?" asked Garrison.

"Yeh." And the trainer lowered his voice. "I know a man that's goin'
to buck the pool-rooms in New York. He needs a chap who knows the
ropes--one like you--and I gave him your name. I thought it would come
in handy. I saw your finish a long way off. This fellah's in the Western
Union; an operator with the pool-room lines. You can run the game. It's
easy. See, he holds back the returns, tipping you the winners, and you
skin round and lay the bets before he loosens up on the returns. It's
easy money; easy and sure."

Again Garrison was silent. But now a smile was on his face. He had been
asking himself what was the use of honesty.

"What d'you say?" asked Crimmins, his head on one side, his small eyes
calculating.

The smile was still twisting Garrison's lip. "I was going to light out,
anyway," he answered slowly. "I'll answer you when I say good-by to
Sis."

"All right. She's over there."

The handlers fell back in silence as Garrison approached the filly. He
was softly humming the music-hall song, "Good-by, Sis." With all his
faults, the handlers to a man liked Garrison. They knew how he had
professed to love the filly, and now they sensed that he would prefer
to say his farewell without an audience. Sis whinnied as Garrison raised