"He may be the best sprinter in the country, mind you, but I'll lay a little bet that he can't run a hundred yards without sustenance."
"Without what?"
"Sustenance—something to eat."
"Well, we've got plenty for him to eat," said the mystified foreman.
"You don't understand. However, time will tell."
"But we ain't got no time. We've made this race 'pay or play,' a week from Saturday, and the bets are down. We was afraid the Centipede would welsh when they seen who we had, so we framed it that-away. What's to be done?"
Again Fresno displayed an artistic restraint that was admirable.
"It's none of my business," said he, with a careless shrug.
"I—I guess I'll tell Willie and the boys," vouchsafed Bill apprehensively.
"No! no! Don't breathe a word I've said to you. He may be a crackerjack, and I wouldn't do him an injustice for the world. All the same, I wish he hadn't broken my stop-watch."
"D'you think he broke it a-purpose?"