“Yes?” The trainer raised his thick eyebrows and lowered his thin voice. “Kind of tony, ain't yeh? Beggars can't be choosers.”
“They needn't be crooks, Dan. I know you meant it all right enough,” said Garrison bitterly. “You think I'm crooked, and that I'd take anything—anything; dirt of any kind, so long's there's money under it.”
“Aw, sneeze!” said Crimmins savagely. Then he checked himself. “It ain't my game. I only knew the man. There's nothing in it for me. Suit yourself;” and he shrugged his shoulders. “It ain't Crimmins' way to hump his services on any man. Take it or leave it.”
“You wanted me to go crooked, Dan,” said Garrison steadily. “Was it friendship—”
“Huh! Wanted you to go crooked?” flashed the trainer with a sneer. “What are y' talking about? Ain't yeh a welcher now? Ain't yeh crooked—hair, teeth, an' skin?”
“You mean that, Dan?” Garrison's face was white. “You've trained me, and yet you, too, believe I was in on those lost races? You know I lost every cent on Sis—”
“It ain't one race, it's six,” snorted Crimmins. “It's Crimmins' way to agitate his brain for a friend, but it ain't his way to be a plumb fool. You can't shoot that bull con into me, Bud. I know you. I give you an offer, friend and friend. You turn it down and 'cuse me of making you play crooked. I'm done with you. It ain't Crimmins' way.”
Billy Garrison eyed his former trainer and mentor steadily for a long time. His lip was quivering.
“Damn your way!” he said hoarsely at length, and turned on his heel. His hands were deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched as he swung out of the stable. He was humming over and over the old music-hall favorite, “Good-by, Sis”—humming in a desperate effort to keep his nerve. Billy Garrison had touched bottom in the depths.