“I'll bet that was close to twenty-four, the track record,” said Garrison unconsciously. “Pretty fair for dead and lumpy going, eh? Midge is a comer, all right. Good weight-carrying sprinter. I fancy that gelding. Properly ridden he would have given me a hard ride. We were even up on weight.”
“And so you think I cannot ride properly!” added the girl quietly, arranging her wind-blown hair.
“Oh, yes. But women can't really ride class, you know. It isn't in them.”
She laughed a little. “I'm satisfied now. You know I was at the Carter Handicap last year.”
“Yes?” said Garrison, unmoved. He met her eyes fairly.
“Yes, you know Rogue, father's horse, won. They say Sis, the favorite, had the race, but was pulled in the stretch.” She was smiling a little.
“Indeed?” murmured Garrison, with but indifferent interest.
She glanced at him sharply, then fell to pleating the gelding's mane. “Um-m-m,” she added softly. “Billy Garrison, you know, rode Sis.”
“Oh, did he?”
“Yes. And, do you know, his seat was identical with yours?” She turned and eyed him steadily.