"Pardon me, you have made a mistake." Garrison stared coldly, blankly at
Drake, shook free his arm, and passed on.

"Gee, what a cut!" mused the book-maker, staring after the rapidly
retreating figure of Garrison. "The frozen mitt for sure. What's
happened now? Where's he been the past six months? Wearing the same
clothes, too! Well, somehow I've queered myself for good. I don't know
what I did or didn't. But I'll keep my eye on him, anyway." To cheer his
philosophy, Drake passed into the Fifth Avenue for a drink.



CHAPTER IV.

A READY-MADE HEIR.

Garrison had flattered himself that he had known adversity in his
time, but in the months succeeding his dismissal from the hospital he
qualified for a post-graduate course in privation. He was cursed with
the curse of the age; it was an age of specialties, and he had none.
His only one, the knowledge of the track, had been buried in him, and
nothing tended to awaken it.

He had no commercial education; nothing but the _savoir-faire_ which
wealth had given to him, and an inherent breeding inherited from his
mother. By reason of his physique he was disbarred from mere manual
labor, and that haven of the failure--the army.

So Garrison joined the ranks of the Unemployed Grand Army of the
Republic. He knew what it was to sleep in Madison Square Park with