"Joke,
eh? Well, you'd better have a good laugh while you can, because
Humpy Joe's finish will be a ten-course dinner to what you'll get
if Covington misses his train."
"How easily frightened you are!"
"Yes? Well, any time people start shooting shots I'm too big for
this earth. The hole in a gun looks as big as a gas-tank to me."
"But nobody is going to shoot you!" exclaimed the mystified
college man.
"They ain't, hey? I missed the Golden Stairs by a lip not half an
hour ago. I got a pipe-stem crossways in my gullet now, and it
tickles." He coughed loudly, then shook his head. "No use; it
won't come up." With feverish intensity he told of his narrow
escape from destruction, the memory bringing a sweat of agony to
his brow. "And the worst of it is," he concluded, "I'm 'marked'
with guns. I've always been that way."
"Tut! tut! Don't alarm yourself. If Covington shouldn't come, the
race will be declared off."
"No chance," announced the trainer, with utter conviction. "These
thugs have made it pay or play, and the bets are down.
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