"Fast work. We been loafing so far; you got to get some ginger."
"Rats! What's the use?"
"No use at all. You couldn't outrun a steam-roller, but if you won't duck out, I've got to do my best. I'd as lief die of a gunshot-wound as starve to death in the desert."
"Do you suppose we could run away?"
"Could we!" Glass propped himself eagerly upon one elbow. "Leave it to me."
"No!" Wally resumed rubbing himself down. "I can't leave without looking like a quitter. Fresno would get her sure."
"What's the difference if you're astraddle of a cloud with a gold guitar in your lap?"
"Oh, they won't kill us."
"I tell you these cow-persons is desp'rate. If you stay here and run that race next Saturday, she'll tiptoe up on Sunday and put a rose in your hand, sure. I can see her now, all in black. Take it from me, Wally, we ain't goin' to have no luck in this thing."
"My dear fellow, the simplest way out of the difficulty is for me to injure myself—"