"Certainly not. But no rough work in front of the cowboys, understand? Sh-h!"
Skinner vaulted lightly through the window, landing in the dirt outside without a sound. "Somebody coming," he whispered. "Understand Merchants' Hotel, Albuquerque, noon, Sunday." And the next instant he had vanished into the dusk, leaving behind him a youth half hysterical with hope.
Out of the blackest gloom had come J. Wallingford Speed's deliverance, and he did not pause to consider the ethics involved. If he had he would have told himself that by Skinner's own confession the Centipede had won through fraud at the first race; if they were paid back in their own coin now it would be no more than tardy justice. With light heart he hastened to replace the borrowed revolver in the bunk-room just as voices coming nearer betokened the arrival of his friends from the house. As he stepped out into the night he came upon Jack Chapin.
"Hello, Wally!"
"Hello, Jack!" They shook hands, while the owner of the Flying
Heart continued.
"I've just got in, and they've been telling me about this foot- race. What in the deuce is the matter with you, anyhow? Why didn't you let me know?"
The girls drew closer, and Speed saw that Miss Blake was pale.
"I wouldn't have allowed it for a minute. Now, of course, I'm going to call it off."
"Oh, Jack, dear, you simply can't!" exclaimed his sister. "You've no idea the state the boys are in."
"They'll never let you, Chapin," supplemented Fresno.