"Well, son," said he gently, "it would depend a lot on which the fellow cared the most for—the race track or the girl."
The Kid flung the cigarette from him and looked up, meeting the old man's eyes for the first time. "I beat you to it, old-timer! Win or lose, I'm through at the end of this meeting. There's a fellow over in Butte just about my age. He was a hustler too, and a pal of mine, but two years ago he quit, and now he's got a little gents' furnishing-goods place—nothing swell, of course, but the business is growing all the time. He's been after me to come in with him on a percentage of the profits, and last night I wrote him to look for me when they get done running here. That part of it is settled. No more race track in mine. But that ain't what I was getting at. Have I got to tell the girl what I've been doing the last five years?"
"Would you rather have her find out from some one else, Frank?"
"No-o."
"If you want to start clean, son, the best place to begin is with the girl."
"But what if she throws me down?"
"That's the chance you'll have to take. You've been taking 'em all your life."
"Yes, but nothing ever meant as much to me as this does."
"Well, son, the more a woman cares for a man the more she'll forgive."