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Garrison's Finish
W. B. M. Ferguson

Page 2 of 264

crowd--that kaleidoscope of the humanities which congregate but do not
blend; which coagulate wherever the trial of science, speed, and
stamina serves as an excuse for putting fortune to the test. 

It was a cynical crowd, a quiet crowd, a sullen crowd.  Those who had
won, through sheer luck, bottled their joy until they could give it
vent in a safer atmosphere--one not so resentful.  For it had been a
hard day for the field.  The favorite beaten in the stretch, choked
off, outside the money----

Garrison gasped as the rushing simulacra of the Carter Handicap surged
to his beating brain; that brain at bursting pressure.  It had recorded
so many things--recorded faithfully so many, many things he would give
anything to forget. 

He was choking, smothering--smothering with shame, hopelessness,
despair.  He must get away; get away to breathe, to think; get away out
of it all; get away anywhere--oblivion. 

To the jibes, the sneers flung at him, the innuendos, the open

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