Isn't it time to go back to the
ranch?"
Glass consulted his watch. "No, we ain't done but three miles.
Here goes for the rubber."
It was Berkeley Fresno who retreated cautiously from the shelter
of a thicket a hundred yards up the arroyo and started briskly
homeward, congratulating himself upon the impulse that had
decided him to follow the training partners upon their daily
routine. He made directly for the corral.
"Which I don't consider there's no consideration comin' to him
whatever," said Willie that evening. "He ain't acted on the
level."
"Now, see here," objected Stover, "he may be just what he claims
he is. Simply because he don't go skally-hootin' around in the
hot sun ain't no sign he _can't_ run."
"What about them empty beer bottles?" demanded Willie. "No feller
can train on that stuff. I went out there myself and seen 'em.
There was a dozen."
"Mebbe Glass drank it. What I claim is this: we ain't got no
proof. Fresno is stuck on Miss Blake, and he's a knocker."
"Then let's _git_ some proof, and dam' quick."
"_Si, Senores_," agreed Carara, who had been an interested
listener.
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