"I suppose he's a great croquet-player too," observed Fresno,
whose face was purple.
"Sure!" Glass winked at him, glad to see that the Californian
enjoyed this kind of sport.
"We don't care nothin' about his skill at sleight-of-hand
tricks," said the man in spectacles, seriously. "And we wouldn't
hold his croquet habits agin him. Some men drink, some gamble,
some do worse; every man has his weakness, and croquet may be
his. What we want to know is this: can he win our phonograph?"
"Surest thing you know!"
"Then you vouch for him, do you?" Willie's eyes were bent upon
the fat man with a look of searching gravity that warned Glass
not to temporize.
"With my life!" exclaimed the trainer.
"You're on!" said the cowboy, with unexpected grimness.
"What d'you mean?"
But before the other could explain, Berkeley Fresno, who had sunk
weakly into a chair at Larry's extravagant praise of his rival,
afforded a diversion. The tenor had leaned back, convulsed with
enjoyment when, losing his balance, he came to the floor with a
crash.
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