With knees trembling beneath him Speed jogged feebly on down the road, Glass puffing at his heels.
When, after covering five miles, they finally returned to the Flying Heart, it was with difficulty that they could drag one foot after another. Wally Speed was drenched with perspiration, and Glass resembled nothing so much as a steaming pudding; rivulets of sweat ran down his neck, his face was purple, his lips swollen.
"Y-you'll have—to run alone—this afternoon," panted the tormentor.
"This afternoon? Haven't I run enough for—one day?" the victim pleaded. "Glass, old man, I—I'm all in, I tell you; I'm ready to die."
"Got to—fry off some more—leaf-lard," declared the trainer with vulgarity. He lumbered into the cook-house, radiating heat waves, puffing like a traction-engine, while his companion staggered to the gymnasium, and sank into a chair. A moment later he appeared with two bottles of beer, one glued to his lips. Both were evidently ice cold, judging from the fog that covered them.
Speed rose with a cry.
"Gee! That looks good!"
But the other, thrusting him aside without removing the neck of the bottle from his lips, gurgled:
"No booze, Wally! You're trainin'!"
"But I'm thirsty!" shouted the athlete, laying hands upon the full bottle, and trying to wrench it free.