Mr. Glass's face abruptly fell into solemn lines. "Quit your kiddin', Wally; you couldn't run a hundred yards in twenty minutes. These guys are on the level. They've sent General Garcia over to cook it."
"Yes. The race comes off in ten days."
Glass allowed his mouth to drop open and his little eyes to peer forth in startled amazement.
"Then it's true? I guess this climate is too much for you," he said. "When did you feel this comin' on?"
Speed laughed. "I know what I'm doing." With an effort at restraint, the trainer inquired:
"What's the idea?"
"I'll tell you how it came up, Larry. I—I'm very fond of Miss Blake. That's why I broke the record getting out here as soon as I was invited. Well, she believes, from something I said—one of those odd moments, you know—that I'm a great athlete, and she told those cowboys that I'd gladly put on my spiked shoes and carry their colors to victory. You've heard about the phonograph?"
Glass smiled wearily. "I can't hear nothing else. The gang is daffy on grand opera."
"When I was accused of being an athlete I couldn't deny it, could
I?"
"I see. You was stringin' the gal, and she called you, eh?"