"Waterbury's all right. He's a square sport. I know. I ought to know,
for I've got inside information. A friend of mine has a cousin who's
married to the brother of a friend of Waterbury's aunt's half-sister.
So I ought to know. Take it from me," added this Bureau of Inside
Information, beating the table with an insistent fist; "it was a put-up
job of Garrison's. I'll bet he made a mint on it. All these jockeys are
crooked. I may be from Little Falls, but I know. You can't fool me. I've
been following Garrison's record--"

"Then what did you bet on him for?" asked his companion mildly.

"Because I thought he might ride straight for once. And being up on Sis,
I thought he couldn't help but win. And so I plunged--heavy. And now,
by Heck! ten dollars gone, and I'm mad; mad clear through. Sis was a
corker, and ought to have had the race. I read all about her in
the Little Falls _Daily Banner_. I'd just like to lay hands on that
Garrison--a miserable little whelp; that's what he is. He ought to have
poisoned himself instead of the horse. I hope Waterbury'll do him up.
I'll see him about it."

Garrison slowly rose, his face white, eyes smoldering. The devil was
running riot through him. His resentment had passed from the apathetic
stage to the fighting. So this was the world's opinion of him! Not only
the world, but miserable wastrels of sports who "plunged heavy" with ten
dollars! His name was to be bandied in their unclean mouths! He, Billy
Garrison, former premier jockey, branded as a thing beyond redemption!
He did not care what might happen, but he would kill that lie here and
now. He was glad of the opportunity; hungry to let loose some of the
resentment seething within him.