ur past, I mean. You
only think you have done this and that."

He was silent, biting his lip.

"Come on, I'll race you," she cried suddenly. "To that big poplar down
there. See it? About two furlongs. I'll give you twenty yards' start.
Don't fall off."

"I gave, never took, handicaps." The words came involuntarily to
Garrison's surprise. "Come on; even up," he added hurriedly. "Ready?"

"Yes. Let her out."

The big bay gelding was off first, with the long, heart-breaking stride
that eats up the ground. The girl's laugh floated back tantalizingly
over her shoulder. Garrison hunched in the saddle, a smile on his lips.
He knew the quality of the flesh under him, and that it would not be
absent at the call.

"Tote in behind, girlie. He got the jump on you. That's it. Nip his
heels." The seconds flew by like the trees; the big poplar rushed up.
"Now, now. Make a breeze, make a breeze," sang out Garrison at the
quarter minute; and like a long, black streak of smoke the filly hunched
past the gelding, leaving it as if anchored. It was the old Garrison
finish which had been track-famous once upon a time, and as Garrison
eased up his hard-driven mount a queer feeling of exultation swelled his
heart; a feeling which he could not quite understand.

"Could I have been a jockey once?" he kept asking himself over and over.
"I wonder could I have been! I wonder!"

The next moment the gelding had ranged up alongside.

"I'll bet that was close to twenty-four, the track record," said
Garrison unconsciously. "Pretty fair for dead and lumpy going, eh?
Midge is a comer, all right. Good weight-carrying sprinter. I fancy that
gelding. Properly ridden he would have given me a hard ride. We were
even up on weight."

"And so you think I cannot ride properly!" added the girl quietly,
arranging her wind-blown hair.

"Oh, yes. But women can't really ride class, you know. It isn't in
them."

She laughed a little. "I'm satisfied now. You know I was at the Carter
Handicap last year."

"Yes?" said Garrison, unmoved. He met her eyes fairly.

"Yes, you know Rogue, father's horse, won. They say Sis, the favorite,
had the race, but was pulled in the stretch." She was smiling a little.

"Indeed?" murmured Garrison, with but indifferent interest.

She glanced at him sharply, then fell to pleating the gelding's mane.
"Um-m-m," she added softly. "Billy Garrison, you know, rode Sis."

"Oh, did he?"

"Yes. And, do you know, his seat was i