"You miserable little whelp!" howled his owner. "You've dishonored me.
You threw that race, damn you! That's what I get for giving you a chance
when you couldn't get a mount anywhere." His long pent-up venom was
unleashed. "You threw it. You've tried to make me party to your dirty
work--me, me, me!"--he thumped his heaving chest. "But you can't heap
your filth on me. I'm done with you. You're a thief, a cur--"

"Hold on," cut in Garrison. He had risen slowly, and was dabbing
furtively at his nose with a silk red-and-blue handkerchief--the
Waterbury colors.

"Just a minute," he added, striving to keep his voice from sliding the
scale. He was horribly calm, but his gray eyes were quivering as was his
lip. "I didn't throw it. I--I didn't throw it. I was sick. I--I've been
sick. I--I----" Then, for he was only a boy with a man's burdens, his
lip began to quiver pitifully; his voice shrilled out and his words came
tumbling forth like lava; striving to make up by passion and reiteration
what they lacked in logic and coherency. "I'm not a thief. I'm not. I'm
honest. I don't know how it happened. Everything became a blur in the
stretch. You--you've called me a liar, Mr. Waterbury. You've called me
a thief. You struck me. I know you can lick me," he shrilled. "I'm
dishonored--down and out. I know you can lick me, but, by the Lord,
you'll do it here and now! You'll fight me. I don't like you. I never
liked you. I don't like your face. I don't like your hat, and
here's your damn colors in your face." He fiercely crumpled the silk
handkerchief and pushed it swiftly into Waterbury's glowering eye.

Instantly there was a mix-up. The crowd was blood-hungry. They had paid
for sport of some kind. There would be no crooked work in this deal.