"Sounds that way," acknowledged Stover's companion. "Say, does it look like we'd win?"
"Well, he just breezed a mile in forty, with his mouth open."
"A mile?" Fresno queried.
"Yes, a regular mile—seven thousand five hundred and thirty feet."
"Is 'forty' good?" queried Willie.
"Good? Why, Salvator never worked no faster. Here he is now—look for yourselves."
Speed appeared, partly clad, and glowing with a rich salmon pink.
"Good-morning," said Fresno politely. "I came in to see how you liked the cold water."
"So that was one of your California jokes, eh? Well, I'll—"
Speed moved ominously in the direction of the tenor, but Willie checked him.