"I've killed men for less," muttered the stoop-shouldered man.
"Did you see his legs?" Fresno was bent upon convincing his hearers.
"Couldn't help but see 'em in that runnin'-suit."
"Nice and soft and white, weren't they?"
"They didn't look like dark meat," Stover agreed, reluctantly.
"But you can't go nothin' on the looks of a feller's legs."
"Well, then, take his wind. A runner always has good lungs, but I'll bet if you snapped him on the chest with a rubber band he'd cough himself to death."
"Mebbe he ain't in good shape yet."
Fresno sneered. "No, and he'll never get into good condition with those girls hanging around him all the time. Don't you know that the worst thing in the world for an athlete is to talk to a woman?"
"That's the worst thing in the world for anybody," said Willie, with cynicism. "But how can we stop it?"
"Make him eat as well as sleep in his training-quarters; don't let him spend any time whatever in female company. Keep your eyes on him night and day."