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Updated: June 6, 2025
The Metropolitan, Brooklyn, Suburban, Brighton, Futurity, and a few minor meets served to swamp the colonel. What Waterbury had to do with the case was not clear. The colonel had taken his advice time and time again only to lose. But the Kentucky estate had been sold, and Mr. Waterbury held the mortgage of the Desha home.
"Three of them want to go on home to St. Louis. Yates yonder is in favor of hanging them all. The boys are bitter about losing Desha." Dunwody looked the young leader calmly in the face. "You hear," said he. "But you shall see that we are not such ruffians at heart, in spite of all. It's my intention to conclude this matter as decently as possible."
Old Colonel Desha had eyed Garrison somewhat queerly on being first introduced, but he had a poor memory for faces, and was unable to connect the newly discovered nephew of his neighbor and friend with little Billy Garrison, the one-time premiere jockey, whom he had frequently seen ride. The week's stay at Calvert House had already begun to show its beneficial effect upon Garrison.
She turned slowly to Drake, standing at her elbow, his eyes on the paddock. "Is it true that a jockey called Garrison is to ride to-day?" she asked, a strange light in her eyes. What that name meant to her! "Why, yes, I believe so, Miss Desha," replied Drake, delightfully innocent. "Why?" "Oh," she said slowly. "How how queer! I mean isn't it queer that two people should have the same name?
James Lees Laidlaw of New York City as auditors. It would be difficult to secure a group of women of more marked ability, or better-known workers in various lines of philanthropic and educational work, than the members composing this admirable board. Stanley McCormack, first vice-president. Mrs. Desha Breckenridge, second vice-president. Dr. Katharine B. Davis, third vice-president. Mrs.
She shivered, though the night was warm. "Why did you call me Miss Desha?" she asked, at length. "Because," he said feebly his nature was true to his Southern name. He was fighting self like the girl "I'm going away," he added. It had to come with a rush or not at all. And it must come. He heaved his chest as a swimmer seeks to breast the waves. "I'm not worthy of you. I'm a a beast," he said.
Twenty yards' gain, twenty yards to the fore, and then Garrison turned easily in the saddle. "All right, Miss Desha, let her come," he sang out cheerfully. And the filly came, came hard; came with all the bitterness of being outstripped by a clumsy gelding whom she had beaten time and again.
He was Colonel Desha, of Kentucky, whose horse, Rogue, had won the Carter Handicap through Garrison's poor riding of the favorite, Sis. His daughter was expostulating with him, trying to insert the true version of the affair between her father's peppery exclamations of "Occupying my seat!" "I saw him raise his hat to you!" "How dare he?"
He would be obliged to win. Colonel Desha was not one who believed in publishing a daily "agony column." He could hold his troubles as he could his drink like a gentleman. He had not intended that Sue should be party to them, but that night of the confession they had caught him unawares. And he played the host to Mr. Waterbury as only a Southern gentleman can.
He was hating himself. He could not meet the major's kindly eyes. "Tut, tut, my boy, no fine speeches. Apropos of this Garrison, why are you so interested in him? Wish to emulate him, eh? Yes, I've seen him ride, but only once, when he was a bit of a lad. I fancy Colonel Desha is the one to give you his merits. You know Garrison's old owner, Mr. Waterbury, is returning with the colonel.
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