"Powerful well, my slim young friend. Say, with them legs you oughter be a good runner."
"Maybe he's a good runner, but he can't skate with me," interposed Musgrove. "No, sir, I—"
"What!" exclaimed Yardsley, with an amused glance at the other's short stature. "He can't! Why—say, I don't believe—no offense, mind yer—that you could run with any feller in this crowd."
Billy Musgrove's face flushed—his little eyes blinked angrily.
"You talk like an idjit, Pardsley," he exclaimed. "I didn't say I could run, but I ain't skeered to try—no, sir—I ain't."
"Why not get up a little race? Them two," indicating Sladder and Musgrove, "can try it first between 'em."
"I don't mind," said Tim Sladder; "eh, Billy?"
"Suits me," grinned Musgrove.
"Might work up a little appetite fer lunch by having that race now," suggested the trapper, with a rather quizzical look. "What say? Or if Musgrove's kinder skeered, mebbe—"
"Skeered? I'll show you I ain't skeered, Bardsley. No, sir! Come on!" and Billy Musgrove strode toward the door.