Going Some Part 23

"I've got it!" said he at last. "I'll run at night!"

Stover hesitated thoughtfully. "I don't reckon you could do yourself justice that-away, but you might do your trainin' at daylight. The Centipede goes to work the same time we do, and the chances is your a.s.sa.s.sin won't miss his breakfast."

"Good! I--I'll do that!"

"I sure admire your courage, but if you see anything suspicious, let us know. We'll git 'em," said Willie.

"Thank you."

The two men went out, whereupon Gla.s.s chattered:

"W--what did I tell you? It's worse'n suicide to stick around this farm. I'm going to blow."

"Where are you going?"

"New York. Let's beat it!"

"Never!" exclaimed the college man, stubbornly. We'll hear from Covington before long. Besides, I can't leave until I get some money from home."

"Let's walk."

"Don't be a fool!"

"Then I've got to have a drink." Gla.s.s started for the living- quarters, but at the door ducked quickly out of sight.

"She's there!" he whispered tragically. "She seen me, too!"

Mariedetta was squatting in the shade opposite, her eyes fixed stolidly upon the training-quarters.

"Then you've got to lay low till she gives up," declared Wally.

"We're in trouble enough as it is."

For nearly an hour the partners discussed the situation while the Mexican maid retained her position; then, when Gla.s.s was on the verge of making a desperate sally, Cloudy entered silently.

Although this had been an unhappy morning for the trainer, here at least was one person of whom he had no fear, and his natural optimism being again to the fore, he greeted the Indian lightly.

"Well, how's the weather, Cloudy?"

"Mr. Cloudy to you," said the other. Both Gla.s.s and his protege stared. It was the first word the Indian had uttered since their arrival. Lawrence winked at his companion.

"All right, if you like it better. How's the weather, Mister Cloudy?" He snickered at his own joke, whereupon the aborigine turned upon him slowly, and said, in perfect English:

"Your humor is misplaced with me. Don't forget, Mr. Gla.s.s, that the one Yale football team you trained, I dropped a goal on from the forty-five-yard line."

Gla.s.s allowed his mouth to open in amazement. The day was replete with surprises.

"'96!" he said, while the light of understanding came over him.

"You're Cloudy-but-the-Sun-s.h.i.+nes?"

"Yes--Carlisle." Cloudy threw back his head, and pointed with dignity to the flag of his Alma Mater hanging upon the wall.

"By Jove, I remember that!" exclaimed Speed.

"So will Yale so long as she lives," predicted the Indian, grimly. "You crippled me in the second half"--he stirred his withered leg--"but I dropped it on you; and--I have not forgotten." He ground the last sentence between his teeth.

"See here, Bo--Mr. Cloudy. You don't blame us for that?" Cloudy grunted, and threw a yellow envelope on the floor at Speed's feet. "There is something for you," said he, while his lips curled. He turned, and limped silently to the door.

"And I tried to kid him!" breathed Gla.s.s with disgust, when the visitor had gone. "I ain't been in right since Garfield was shot."

"It's a telegram from Covington!" cried Speed, tearing open the message. "At last!"

"Thank the Lord!" Gla.s.s started forward eagerly. "When'll he be here? Quick!" Then he paused. J. Wallingford Speed had gone deathly pale, and was reeling slightly. "What's wrong?"

The college man made uncertainly for his bed, murmuring incoherently:

"I--I'm sick! I'm sick, Larry!" He fell limply at full length, and groaned, "Call the race off!"

Gla.s.s s.n.a.t.c.hed the missive from his employer's nerveless fingers, and read, with bulging eyes, as follows:

"J. WALLINGFORD SPEED, _Flying Heart Ranch, Kidder, New Mexico:_

"Don't tip off. Am in jail Omaha. Looks like ten days.

"CULVER COVINGTON."

The trainer uttered a cry like that of a wounded animal.

"Call it off, Larry," moaned the Hope of the Flying Heart. "I've been poisoned!"

"Poisoned, eh?" said the fat man, tremulously. "Poisoned!

_Nix!_ Not with me!" He walked firmly across the room, flung back the lid of Speed's athletic trunk, and began to paw through it feverishly. One after another he selected three heavy sweaters, then laid strong hands upon his protege and jerked him to his feet. "Sick, eh? Here, get into these!"

"What do you mean, Lawrence?" inquired his victim.

"If you get sick, I die." Gla.s.s opened the first sweater, and half-smothered his protege with it. "Hurry up! You're going into training!"

CHAPTER XI

That was a terrible hour for J. Wallingford Speed. As for Larry, once he had grasped the full significance of the telegram, he became a different person. Some fierce electric charge wrought a chemical alteration in his every fibre; he became a domineering, iron-willed autocrat, obsessed by the one idea of his own preservation, and not hesitating to use physical force when force became necessary to lessen his peril.

Repeatedly Speed folded his arms over his stomach, rocked in the throes of anguish, and wailed that he was peris.h.i.+ng of cramps; the trainer only snorted with derision. When he refused to don the clothes selected for him, Gla.s.s fell upon him like a raging grizzly.

"You won't, eh? We'll see!" Then Speed took refuge in anger, but the other cried:

"Never mind the hysterics, Bo. You're going to run off some blubber to-day."