“Um-m-m,” said Garrison; “why, yes, I suppose so.” He laughed in sudden joy. “It feels so good,” he confided.
“You remind me of a person in a dream,” she said, after a little, still watching him closely. “Nothing seems real to you—your past, I mean. You only think you have done this and that.”
He was silent, biting his lip.
“Come on, I'll race you,” she cried suddenly. “To that big poplar down there. See it? About two furlongs. I'll give you twenty yards' start. Don't fall off.”
“I gave, never took, handicaps.” The words came involuntarily to Garrison's surprise. “Come on; even up,” he added hurriedly. “Ready?”
“Yes. Let her out.”
The big bay gelding was off first, with the long, heart-breaking stride that eats up the ground. The girl's laugh floated back tantalizingly over her shoulder. Garrison hunched in the saddle, a smile on his lips. He knew the quality of the flesh under him, and that it would not be absent at the call.
“Tote in behind, girlie. He got the jump on you. That's it. Nip his heels.” The seconds flew by like the trees; the big poplar rushed up. “Now, now. Make a breeze, make a breeze,” sang out Garrison at the quarter minute; and like a long, black streak of smoke the filly hunched past the gelding, leaving it as if anchored. It was the old Garrison finish which had been track-famous once upon a time, and as Garrison eased up his hard-driven mount a queer feeling of exultation swelled his heart; a feeling which he could not quite understand.
“Could I have been a jockey once?” he kept asking himself over and over. “I wonder could I have been! I wonder!”
The next moment the gelding had ranged up alongside.