To be
sure, it adjoined the bunk-room, where the cowboys slept, and
there were no gymnastic appliances to give it character, but it
was the only space available, and what it lacked in horizontal
bars, dumb-bells, and Indian clubs it more than compensated for
by a cosey-corner, a window-seat, and many cushions. Speed had
expressed his delight with the idea, and agreed to wait for a
glimpse of it.
And the atmosphere at the Flying Heart Ranch was clearing. The
gloom of the cowboys had given way to a growing excitement, a
part of which communicated itself to the occupants of the house.
The lassitude of previous days was gone, the monotony had
disappeared, and Miss Chapin had cause to rejoice at the presence
of her latest guest, for Speed was like a tonic. He was
everywhere, he inspired them all, laughter followed in his wake.
Even in the bunk-house the cowboys retailed his extravagant
stories with delight. The Flying Heart had come into its own at
last; the Centipede, most scorned and hated of rivals, was due
for lasting defeat. Even Cloudy, the Indian, relaxed and spoke at
rare intervals, while Willie worked about the place gleefully,
singing snatches of _Sam Bass_ in a tuneless falsetto.
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