"
"It's a telegram from Covington!" cried Speed, tearing open the
message. "At last!"
"Thank the Lord!" Glass started forward eagerly. "When'll he be
here? Quick!" Then he paused. J. Wallingford Speed had gone
deathly pale, and was reeling slightly. "What's wrong?"
The college man made uncertainly for his bed, murmuring
incoherently:
"I--I'm sick! I'm sick, Larry!" He fell limply at full length,
and groaned, "Call the race off!"
Glass snatched the missive from his employer's nerveless fingers,
and read, with bulging eyes, as follows:
"J. WALLINGFORD SPEED, _Flying Heart Ranch, Kidder, New
Mexico:_
"Don't tip off. Am in jail Omaha. Looks like ten days.
"CULVER COVINGTON."
The trainer uttered a cry like that of a wounded animal.
"Call it off, Larry," moaned the Hope of the Flying Heart. "I've
been poisoned!"
"Poisoned, eh?" said the fat man, tremulously. "Poisoned!
_Nix!_ Not with me!" He walked firmly across the room, flung
back the lid of Speed's athletic trunk, and began to paw through
it feverishly. One after another he selected three heavy
sweaters, then laid strong hands upon his protege and jerked him
to his feet.
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