At sight of Speed he uttered a cry, then plunged through the crowd like a bull, but the lariat loop slipped to his neck and tightened like a hangman's noose.
"Larry," cried his employer, sharply, "have you lost your head?"
"Ain't they g-g-got you yet?" queried the trainer in a strangling voice.
"You idiot, I won!"
"What!"
"I won—easy."
"You won!" Larry's eyes were starting from his head.
"He sure did," said Stover. "Didn't you think he could?"
Glass apprehended that look of suspicion. "Certainly!" said he.
"Didn't I say so, all along? Now take that clothesline off of me;
I've got to run some more."
That evening J. Wallingford Speed and Helen Blake sat together in the hammock, and much of the time her hand was in his. The breath of the hills wandered to them idly, fragrant with the odors of the open fields, the heavens were bright with dancing stars, the night itself was made for romance. From the bunk-house across the court-yard floated the voice of the beloved Echo Phonograph, now sad, now gay; now shrilling the peaceful air with Mme. Melba's Holy City, now waking the echoes with the rasping reflections of Silas on Fifth Avenue. To the spellbound audience gathered close beside it, it was divine; but deep as was their satisfaction, it could not compare with that of the tired young son of Eli. Ineffable peace and contentment were his; the whole wide world was full of melody.