the weeds. Buck up, buck up," he growled savagely, in fierce contempt.
"What're you dripping about?" He had caught a tear burning its way to
his eyes--eyes that had never blinked under Waterbury's savage blows.
"What if you are ruled off! What if you are called a liar and crook;
thrown the game to soak a pile? What if you couldn't get a clotheshorse
to run in a potato-race? Buck up, buck up, and plug your cotton pipe.
They say you're a crook. Well, be one. Show 'em you don't care a damn.
You're down and out, anyway. What's honesty, anyway, but whether you got
the goods or ain't? Shake the bunch. Get out before you're kicked out.
Open a pool-room like all the has-beens and trim the suckers right,
left, and down the middle. Money's the whole thing. Get it. Don't mind
how you do, but just get it. You'll be honest enough for ten men then.
Anyway, there's no one cares a curse how you pan out--"

He stopped, and his face slowly relaxed. The hard, vindictive look
slowly faded from his narrowed eyes.

"Sis," he said softly. "Sis--I was going without saying good-by. Forgive
me."

He swung on his heel, and with hunched shoulders made his way back
to Aqueduct. Waterbury's training-quarters were adjacent, and, after
lurking furtively about like some hunted animal, Garrison summoned all
his nerve and walked boldly in.

The only stable-boy about was one with a twisted mouth and flaming
red hair, which he was always curling; a remarkably thin youth he was,
addicted to green sweaters and sentimental songs. He was singing one now
in a key entirely original with himself. "Red's" characteristic was that
when happy he wore a face like a tomb-stone. When sad, the sentimental