The crowd surged back. Owner and jockey were face to face. "When thieves fall out!" they thought; and they waited for the fun. Something was due them. It came in a flash. Waterbury shot out his big fist, and little Garrison thumped on the turf with a bang, a thin streamer of blood threading its way down his gray-white face.
"You miserable little whelp!" howled his owner. "You've dishonored me. You threw that race, damn you! That's what I get for giving you a chance when you couldn't get a mount anywhere." His long pent-up venom was unleashed. "You threw it. You've tried to make me party to your dirty work--me, me, me!"--he thumped his heaving chest. "But you can't heap your filth on me. I'm done with you. You're a thief, a cur--"
"Hold on," cut in Garrison. He had risen slowly, and was dabbing furtively at his nose