"Oh, is that so?" Glass retorted. "I say he's great. He got my goat—and I'm some runner."
"And I'd be obliged to you if you'd cut out those deeply appealing songs." Speed glowered at his rival. It was Helen who hastened to smooth things.
"It's all my fault. I asked Mr. Fresno to sing something new."
"Bah! That was written by William Cromwell."
"No more of them battle-hymns," Glass ordered. "They don't do Mr.
Speed no good."
"All I want is a drink," panted that youthful athlete, and Helen rose quickly, saying that she would bring ice-water.
But the trainer barked, sharply: "Nix! I've told you that twenty times, Wally. It'll put hob-nails in your liver." He rose with difficulty, swaying upon his feet, and where he had sat was a large, irregular shaped, sweat-dampened area. "Come on! Don't get chilled."
"I'd give twenty dollars for a good chill!" exclaimed the overheated college man longingly.
"I would like to see you a moment, Mr. Speed." Roberta rose from the hammock.
"Oh, and I've forgotten my—" Helen checked her words with a startled glance toward the kitchen. "It will be burned to a crisp." She hastened down the porch, and Fresno followed, while Speed looked after them.