"Y-you'll have--to run alone--this afternoon," panted the
tormentor.
"This afternoon? Haven't I run enough for--one day?" the victim
pleaded. "Glass, old man, I--I'm all in, I tell you; I'm ready to
die."
"Got to--fry off some more--leaf-lard," declared the trainer with
vulgarity. He lumbered into the cook-house, radiating heat waves,
puffing like a traction-engine, while his companion staggered to
the gymnasium, and sank into a chair. A moment later he appeared
with two bottles of beer, one glued to his lips. Both were
evidently ice cold, judging from the fog that covered them.
Speed rose with a cry.
"Gee! That looks good!"
But the other, thrusting him aside without removing the neck of
the bottle from his lips, gurgled:
"No booze, Wally! You're trainin'!"
"But I'm thirsty!" shouted the athlete, laying hands upon the
full bottle, and trying to wrench it free.
"Have a little sense. If you're thirsty, hit the sink." Glass
still maintained his hold, mumbling indistinctly: "Water's the
worst thing in the world. Wait! I'll get you some.
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