ever put myself before a girl who cared for me the way Miss
Desha cares for you, and I professed to love her as you professed to
love Miss Desha, than may I rot--rot, hide, hair, and bones! Now, cuss
me out, if you like."

Garrison looked up grimly.

"You're right, Jimmie. I should have stood my ground and taken my dose.
I should have written her when I discovered the truth. But--I couldn't.
I couldn't. Listen, Jimmie, it was not selfishness, not cowardice.
Can't you see? Can't you see? I cared too much. I was so unworthy, so
miserable. How could I ever think she would stoop to my level? She was
so high; I so horribly low. It was my own unworthiness choking me. It
was not selfishness, Jimmie, not selfishness. It was despair; despair
and misery. Don't you understand?"

"Oh, fuss!" said Drake again, using the lurid silk handkerchief. Then he
laid his hand on the other's shoulder. "I understand," he said simply.
There was silence. Finally Drake wiped his face and cleared his throat.

"And now, with your permission, we'll get down to tacks, Mr. William C.
Dagget--"

"Don't call me that, Jimmie. I'm not that--yet. I'm Billy Garrison until
I've won the Carter Handicap--proven myself clean."

"Right, kid. And that's what I wished to speak about. In the first
place, Major Calvert knows where you are. Colonel and Miss Desha do not.
In fact, kid," added Drake, rubbing his chin, "the major and I have a
little plot hatched up between us. Your identity, if possible is not to
be made known to the colonel and his daughter until the finish of the
Carter. Understand?"

"No," said Garrison flatly. "Why?"

"Because, kid, you're not going to ride Speedaway. You're not going to
ride for my stable. You're going to ride Colonel Desha's Rogue--ride as
you never rode before. Ride and win. That's why."

Garrison only stared as Drake ran on. "See here, kid, this race means
everything to the colonel--everything in the world. Every cent he has
is at stake; his honor, his life, his daughter's happiness. He's proud,
cussed proud, and he's kept it mum. And the girl--Miss Desha has bucked
poverty like a thoroughbred. I got to know the facts, picking them up
here and there, and the major knows, too. We've got to work in the dark,
for the colonel would die first if he knew the truth, before he would
accept help even indirectly. The Rogue must win; must. But what
chance has he against the major's Dixie, my Speedaway, and the Morgan
entry--Swal