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Updated: June 6, 2025
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.
A pair of eyes were drawing his. He glanced up there was "Cottonton"; "Cottonton" and Sue Desha. The girl's hands were tightly clenched in her lap, her head thrown forward; her eyes obliterating space; eating into his own. How long he looked into those eyes he did not know. The major, his wife, Drake all were shut out. He only saw those eyes.
The red and white of the Morgan stable; the blue and gold of the Desha. It's Swallow. No, no, it's The Rogue. Back and forth, back and forth stormed the rival names. The field was pandemonium. "Cottonton" was a mass of frantic arms, raucous voices, white faces. Drake, his pudgy hands whanging about like semaphore-signals in distress, was blowing his lungs out: "Come on, kid come on!
All Sue Desha had said, and had meant without saying, had been photographed on the sensitized plate of his memory that plate on which the negatives of the past were but filmy shadows. Now, of them all, the same Garrison was on the sky-line of his imagination. Could it be possible that Billy Garrison and he were one and the same? And then that incident of the train.
He stayed at Calvert House, braving the abhorrence of his better self; stayed not through any appreciation of the Calvert flesh-pots, nor because of any monetary benefits, present or future. He lived in the present, for the hour, oblivious to everything. For Garrison had fallen in love with his next-door neighbor, Sue Desha.
He breathed heavily, painfully. "Could could you?" he whispered. "If if you only could." There was a great longing, a mighty wistfulness in his voice. Death was trying to place its hand over his mouth. With a mighty effort Waterbury slipped past it. "If you only could," he reiterated. "It it means so little to you, Miss Desha so much, so much to me!" And again the girl understood.
These votive offerings were tendered in subdued silence fitting to the occasion, but Sue always lauded them to the skies. Nor would she let him see that she understood the contrition working in him. To Colonel Desha she was no longer "my little girl," but "my daughter." Very often we only recognize another's right and might by being in the wrong and weak ourselves.
He had just sent Speedaway over the seven furlongs in record time, and his heart was big with hope. Drake never wasted ammunition in preliminary skirmishing. He told the joke first and the story afterward. "I've been South. Seen Colonel Desha and Major Calvert," he said tersely. Garrison was silent, looking at him.
Away back somewhere in the line there must have existed what New Englanders term a "good provider," but that virtue had not descended from father to son. The original vast Desha estates decreased with every generation, seldom a descendant making even a spasmodic effort to replenish them. There was always a mortgage or sale in progress.
More than that, a week had not passed before it was made patently apparent to Garrison, much to his surprise and no little dismay, that he was liked for himself alone. The major was a father to him, Mrs. Calvert a mother in every sense of the word. He had seen Sue Desha twice since his "home-coming," for the Calvert and Desha estates joined.
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