GARRISON'S FINISH.

It was April 16. Month of budding life; month of hope; month of spring
when all the world is young again; when the heart thaws out after its
long winter frigidity. It was the day of the opening of the Eastern
racing season; the day of the Carter Handicap.

Though not one of the "classics," the Carter annually draws an
attendance of over ten thousand; ten thousand enthusiasts who have not
had a chance to see the ponies run since the last autumn race; those who
had been unable to follow them on the Southern circuit. Women of every
walk of life; all sorts and conditions of men. Enthusiasts glad to be
out in the life-giving sunshine of April; panting for excitement;
full to the mouth with volatile joy; throwing off the shackles of the
business treadmill; discarding care with the ubiquitous umbrella and
winter flannels; taking fortune boldly by the hand; returning to first
principles; living for the moment; for the trial of skill, endurance,
and strength; staking enough in the balances to bring a fillip to the
heart and the blood to the cheek.

It was a typical American crowd; long-suffering, giving and
taking--principally giving--good-humored, just. All morning it came in a
seemingly endless chain; uncoupling link by link, only to weld together
again. All morning long, ferries, trolleys, trains were jammed with the
race-mad throng. Coming by devious ways, for divers reasons; coming from
all quarters by every medium; centering at last at the Queen's County
Jockey Club.

And never before in the history of the Aqueduct track had so thoroughly
a representative body of racegoers assembled at an opening day. Never
before had Long Island lent sitting and standing room to so impressive
a gathering of talent, money, and family. Every one interested in the
various phases of the turf was there, but even they only formed a small
portion of the attendance.

Rumors floated from paddock to stand and back again. The air was
surcharged with these wireless messages, bearing no signature nor
guarantee of authenticity. And borne on the crest of all these rumors
was one--great, paramount. Garrison, the former great Garrison, had come
back. He was to ride; ride the winner of the last Carter, the winner of
a fluke race.

The world had not forgotten. They remembered The Rogue's last race. They
remembered Garrison's last race. The wise ones said that The Rogue could
not possibly win. This time there could be no fluke,