him to win. Poor old Sis!" he added softly, as the fact of her poisoning
swept over him. "The only thing that cared for me--gone! I'm down on my
luck--hard. And it's not over yet. I feel it in the air. There's another
fall coming to me."

He shivered through sheer nervous exhaustion, though the night was warm
for mid-April. He rummaged in his pocket.

"One dollar in bird-seed," he mused grimly, counting the coins under the
violet glare of a neighboring arc light. "All that's between me and the
morgue. Did I ever think it would come to that? Well, I need a bracer.
Here goes ten for a drink. Can only afford bar whisky."

He was standing on the corner of Twenty-fifth Street, and unconsciously
he turned into the cafe of the Hoffman House. How well he knew its every
square inch! It was filled with the usual sporting crowd, and Garrison
entered as nonchalantly as if his arrival would merit the same commotion
as in the long ago. He no longer cared. His depression had dropped from
him. The lights, the atmosphere, the topics of conversation, discussion,
caused his blood to flow like lava through his veins. This was home,
and all else was forgotten. He was not the discarded jockey, but Billy
Garrison, whose name on the turf was one to conjure with.

And then, even as he had awakened from his dream on Broadway, he now
awoke to an appreciation of the immensity of his fall from grace. He
knew fully two-thirds of those present. Some there were who nodded, some
kindly, some pityingly. Some there were who cut him dead, deliberately
turning their backs or accurately looking through the top of his hat.

Billy's square chin went up to a point and his under lip came out. He
would not be driven out. He would show them. He was as honest as any
there; more honest than many; more foolish than all. He ordered a drink
and seated himself by a table, indifferently eyeing the shifting crowd
through the fluttering curtain of tobacco-smoke.

The staple subject of conversation was the Carter Handicap, and he
sensed rather than noted the glances of the crowd as they shifted
curiously to him and back again. At first he pretended not to notice
them, but after a certain length of time his oblivion was sincere, for
retrospect came and claimed him for its own.

He was aroused by footsteps behind him; they wavered, stopped, and a
large hand was laid on his shoulder.

"Hello, kid! You here, too?"

He looked up quickly, though he knew the voice. It w