CHAPTER XIII.
PROVEN CLEAN.
Two months had gone in; two months of slow recuperation, regeneration for Garrison. He was just beginning to look at life from the standpoint of unremitting toil and endeavor. It is the only satisfactory standpoint. From it we see life in its true proportions. Neither distorted through the blue glasses of pessimism—but another name for the failure of misapplication—nor through the wonderful rose-colored glasses of the dreamer. He was patiently going back over his past life; returning to the point where he had deserted the clearly defined path of honor and duty for the flowery fields of unbridled license.
It was no easy task he had set himself, but he did not falter by the wayside. Three great stimulants he had—health, the thought of Sue Desha, and the practical assistance of Jimmie Drake.
It was a month, dating from the memorable meeting with the turfman, before Garrison was able to leave the hospital. When he did, it was to take up his life at Drake's Long Island breeding-farm and racing-stable; for in the interim Drake had passed from book-making stage to that of owner. He ran a first-class string of mounts, and he signed Garrison to ride for him during the ensuing season.
It was the first chance for regeneration, and it had been timidly asked and gladly granted; asked and granted during one of the long nights in the hospital when Garrison was struggling for strength and faith. It had been the first time he had been permitted to talk for any great length.
“Thank you,” he said, on the granting of his request, which he more than thought would be refused. His eyes voiced where his lips were dumb. “I haven't gone back, Jimmie, but it's good of you to give me a chance on my say-so. I'll bear it in mind. And—and it's good of you, Jimmie, to—to come and sit with me. I—I appreciate it all, and I don't see why you should do it.”
Drake laughed awkwardly.
“It's the least I could do, kid. The favor ain't on my side, it's on yours. Anyway, what use is a friend if he ain't there when you need him? It was luck I found you here. I thought you had disappeared for keeps. Remember that day you cut me on Broadway? I ought to have followed you, but I was sore—”
“But I—I didn't mean to cut you, Jimmie. I didn't know you. I want to tell you all about that—about everything. I'm just beginning to know now that I'm living. I've been buried alive. Honest!”