It was a month, dating from the memorable meeting with the turfman,
before Garrison was able to leave the hospital. When he did, it was to
take up his life at Drake's Long Island breeding-farm and racing-stable;
for in the interim Drake had passed from book-making stage to that of
owner. He ran a first-class string of mounts, and he signed Garrison to
ride for him during the ensuing season.

It was the first chance for regeneration, and it had been timidly asked
and gladly granted; asked and granted during one of the long nights in
the hospital when Garrison was struggling for strength and faith. It had
been the first time he had been permitted to talk for any great length.

"Thank you," he said, on the granting of his request, which he more than
thought would be refused. His eyes voiced where his lips were dumb. "I
haven't gone back, Jimmie, but it's good of you to give me a chance
on my say-so. I'll bear it in mind. And--and it's good of you, Jimmie,
to--to come and sit with me. I--I appreciate it all, and I don't see why
you should do it."

Drake laughed awkwardly.

"It's the least I could do, kid. The favor ain't on my side, it's on
yours. Anyway, what use is a friend if he ain't there when you need him?
It was luck I found you here. I thought you had disappeared for keeps.
Remember that day you cut me on Broadway? I ought to have followed you,
but I was sore--"

"But I--I didn't mean to cut you, Jimmie. I didn't know you. I want to
tell you all about that--about everything. I'm just beginning to know