her small head and looked steadily into her soft, dark eyes.

"Sis," he said slowly, "it's good-by. We've been pals, you and I; pals
since you were first foaled. You're the only girl I have; the only
sweetheart I have; the only one to say good-by to me. Do you care?"

The filly nuzzled at his shoulder. "I've done you dirt to-day,"
continued the boy a little unsteadily. "It was your race from the start.
You know it; I know it. I can't explain now, Sis, how it came about. But
I didn't go to do it. I didn't, girlie. You understand, don't you? I'll
square that deal some day, Sis. I'll come back and square it. Don't
forget me. I won't forget you--I can't. You don't think me a crook, Sis?
Say you don't. Say it," he pleaded fiercely, raising her head.

The filly understood. She lipped his face, whinnying lovingly. In a
moment Garrison's nerve had been swept away, and, arms flung about the
dark, arched neck, he was sobbing his heart out on the glossy coat;
sobbing like a little child.

How long he stayed there, the filly nuzzling him like a mother, he did
not know. It seemed as if he had reached sanctuary after an aeon of
chaos. He had found love, understanding in a beast of the field. Where
his fellow man had withheld, the filly had given her all and questioned
not. For Sis, by Rex out of Reine, two-year filly, blooded stock, was
a thoroughbred. And a thoroughbred, be he man, beast, or bird, does not
welch on his hand. A stranger only in prosperity; a chum in adversity.
He does not question; he gives.

"Well," said Crimmins, as Garrison slowly emerged from the stall, "you
take the partin' pretty next your skin. What's your answer to the game I