"Yes," said she, sweetly. "You told me all about the mayor's
daughter a week ago." Then spying Speed and his companion, she
exclaimed: "Mr. Fresno has a fine voice, hasn't he? He sings with
the Stanford Glee Club."
"Indeed."
"Sure!" The Native Son of the Golden West shook up a hammock-
cushion for the girl. "Tenor!" said he, sententiously.
"Say no more," Speed remarked; "it's all right with us!"
Fresno looked up.
"What's wrong with my singing?"
"Oh, I've just told the girls that you're going to run that foot-
race," Helen interposed, hurriedly, at which Fresno exploded.
"What's wrong with my running?" inquired Speed.
"I can beat you!"
Larry Glass nudged his employer openly, and seemed on the verge
of hysteria. "Let him go," said he. "Let him go; he's funny."
Speed addressed Helen, with a magnanimous smile:
"Suppose we allow Frez to _sing_ this foot-race? We'll pull
it off in the treble cleff."
"Oh, I mean it!" maintained the tenor, stubbornly. "I don't want
to run Skinner, the cook, but I'll run you to see who does meet
him.
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