Then when he began to go back--No; worse. Not that. They said he had
gone crooked. That was it. Crooked as Doyers Street, they said; throwing
every race; standing in with his owner to trim the bookies, and they
couldn't stand for that. Sport was sport. But they had been loyal. They
had warned, implored, begged. What was the use soaking a pile by dirty
work? Why not ride straight--ride as he could, as he did, as it had been
bred in him to? Any money, any honor was his. Instead--

Garrison, stung to madness by retrospect, humped his way through the
crowd at the gates of the Aqueduct. There was not a friendly eye in that
crowd. He stuffed his ears with indifference. He would not bear their
remarks as they recognized him. He summoned all his nerve to look them
in the face unflinchingly--that nerve that had been frayed to ribbons.

And then he heard quick footsteps behind him; a hand was laid heavily
on his shoulder, and he was twisted about like a chip. It was his stable
owner, his face flushed with passion and drink. Waterbury was stingy of
cash, but not of words.

"I've looked for you," he whipped out venomously, his large hands
ravenous for something to rend. "Now I've caught you. Who was in with
you on that dirty deal? Answer, you cur! Spit it out before the crowd.
Was it me? Was it me?" he reiterated in a frenzy, taking a step forward
for each word, his bad grammar coming equally to the fore.

The crowd surged back. Owner and jockey were face to face. "When thieves
fall out!" they thought; and they waited for the fun. Something was due
them. It came in a flash. Waterbury shot out his big fist, and little
Garrison thumped on the turf with a bang, a thin streamer of blood
threading its way down his gray-white face.