"And I tried to kid him!" breathed Glass with disgust, when the visitor had gone. "I ain't been in right since Garfield was shot."
"It's a telegram from Covington!" cried Speed, tearing open the message. "At last!"
"Thank the Lord!" Glass started forward eagerly. "When'll he be here? Quick!" Then he paused. J. Wallingford Speed had gone deathly pale, and was reeling slightly. "What's wrong?"
The college man made uncertainly for his bed, murmuring incoherently:
"I—I'm sick! I'm sick, Larry!" He fell limply at full length, and groaned, "Call the race off!"
Glass snatched the missive from his employer's nerveless fingers, and read, with bulging eyes, as follows:
"J. WALLINGFORD SPEED, Flying Heart Ranch, Kidder, New
Mexico:
"Don't tip off. Am in jail Omaha. Looks like ten days.
"CULVER COVINGTON."
The trainer uttered a cry like that of a wounded animal.