"Hold on," said Drake. "You're gettin' too flossy right there. When
you call me a tout you're exceedin' the speed limit." He had an
uncomfortable steady blue eye and a face like a snow-shovel. "I stepped
in here not to argue morals, but to see fair play. If Billy Garrison's
done dirt--and I admit it looks close like it--I'll bet that your
stable, either trainer or owner, shared the mud-pie, all right--"

"I've stood enough of those slurs," cried Waterbury, in a frenzy. "You
lie."

Instantly Drake's large face stiffened like cement, and his overcoat was
on the ground.

"That's a fighting word where I come from," he said grimly.

But before Drake could square the insult a crowd of Waterbury's
friends swirled up in an auto, and half a dozen peacemakers, mutual
acquaintances, together with two somnambulistic policemen, managed
to preserve the remains of the badly shattered peace. Drake sullenly
resumed his coat, and Waterbury was driven off, leaving a back draft
of impolite adjectives and vague threats against everybody. The crowd
drifted away. It was a fitting finish for the scotched Carter Handicap.

Meanwhile, Garrison, taking advantage of the switching of the lime-light
from himself to Drake, had dodged to oblivion in the crowd.

"I guess I don't forget Jimmy Drake," he mused grimly to himself. "He's
straight cotton. The only one who didn't give me the double-cross out
and out. Bud, Bud!" he declared to himself, "this is sure the wind-up.
You've struck bed-rock and the tide's coming in--hard. You're all to