"Skinner, the man I run."
Glass groaned. "His name ain't Skinner; that's 'Whiz' Long. Six years ago I saw him win the Sheffield Handicap from scratch in nine-three." Then, as Speed did not seem to be particularly pressed, "Don't you understand, Wally? He's a pro; this is his game!"
To which the younger man replied, serenely and happily, "It's fixed."
"What's fixed?"
"The race. It' s all arranged—framed."
"Who framed it? How? When?"
"Sh-h! I did. Yesterday; by stealth; I fixed it."
"You win from 'Whiz' Long, and you can't run under fifteen?"
Wally nodded. "I told him that—it's all right."
"You told him?" Glass staggered. "It's all right? Say! Don't you know he's the fastest, crookedest, cheatingest, double- crossingest—why, he just came to feel you out!"