"Hello, kid! You here, too?"

He looked up quickly, though he knew the voice. It was Jimmy Drake,
and he was looking down at him, a queer gleam in his inscrutable eyes.
Garrison nodded without speaking. He noticed that the book-maker had not
offered to shake hands, and the knowledge stung. The crowd was watching
them curiously, and Drake waved off, with a late sporting extra he
carried, half a dozen invitations to liquidate.

"Kid," he said, lowering his voice, his hand still on Garrison's
shoulder, "what did you come here for? Why don't you get away? Waterbury
may be here any minute."

"What's that to me?" spat out Billy venomously. "I'm not afraid of him.
No call to be."

Drake considered, the queer look still in his eyes.

"Don't get busty, kid. I don't know how you ever come to do it, but it's
a serious game, a dirty game, and I guess it may mean jail for you, all
right."

"What do you mean?" Garrison's pinched face had gone slowly white. A
vague premonition of impending further disaster possessed him, amounting
almost to an obsession. "What do you mean, Jimmy?" he reiterated
tensely.

Drake was silent, still scrutinizing him.

"Kid," he said finally, "I don't like to think it of you--but I know