When Covington gets here
I'll let _him_ run."
The fat man sighed with relief. "Now I'm hep. I was afraid you'd
try to go through with it."
"Hardly. I'll sprain an ankle, or something. She'll be there with
the sympathy. See? Covington will run the race; the cowboys will
get their phonograph; and I'll get--well, if I can beat out this
Native Son tenor singer, I'll invite you to the wedding. There
wasn't any other way out."
Glass mopped his brow. "You had me wingin' for a while, but I
plugged your game with the cowboys. Pawnee Bill and his Congress
of Rough Riders think you're a cyclone."
"It's the first chance I ever had to wear that silk running-suit.
Who knows, maybe I _can_ run!"
"Nix, now! Don't kid yourself too far. This thing is funny enough
as it stands."
"Oh, I dare say it looks like a joke to you, but it doesn't to
me, Larry. If I don't marry that girl, I--I'll go off my balance,
that's all, and I'm not going to overlook any advantage whatever.
Fresno sings love-songs, and he's got a mint of money. Well, I'm
going to work this athletic pose to death.
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