He'd be flyin' in the
face of Providence."
But this comforting conclusion wavered again, when Berkeley
Fresno, who had awaited their report, scoffed openly.
"He can't run! If he could run he'd be running. I tell you, he
can't run as fast as a sheep can walk."
"Senor, you see those beautiful medal he have?" expostulated
Carara.
"Sure," agreed Willie. "His brisket was covered with 'em. He had
one that hung down like a dewlap."
"Phony!"
"I've killed men for less," muttered the stoop-shouldered man.
"Did you see his legs?" Fresno was bent upon convincing his
hearers.
"Couldn't help but see 'em in that runnin'-suit."
"Nice and soft and white, weren't they?"
"They didn't look like dark meat," Stover agreed, reluctantly.
"But you can't go nothin' on the looks of a feller's legs."
"Well, then, take his wind. A runner always has good lungs, but
I'll bet if you snapped him on the chest with a rubber band he'd
cough himself to death."
"Mebbe he ain't in good shape yet."
Fresno sneered. "No, and he'll never get into good condition with
those girls hanging around him all the time.
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