"A tear, a sigh, a last 'Good-bye'-The
pardon came too late."
"Here, what are you singing about?" angrily protested Speed, as
he rounded into view.
"Oh, it's Mr. Speed!"
"Good-morning!" chorused Helen and the chaperon.
"Welcome to our city!" Fresno greeted.
Glass tottered to the steps. "Them songs," he puffed, "is bad for
a man when he's trainin'; they get him all worked up."
"We had no idea you would be back so soon," apologized Helen.
"Soon!" Speed measured the distance to a wicker chair, gave it
up, and sank beside his trainer. "We left yesterday! We've run
miles and miles and miles!"
"You can't be in very good shape," volunteered the singer.
"Oh, is that so?" Glass retorted. "I say he's great. He got my
goat--and I'm some runner."
"And I'd be obliged to you if you'd cut out those deeply
appealing songs." Speed glowered at his rival. It was Helen who
hastened to smooth things.
"It's all my fault. I asked Mr. Fresno to sing something new."
"Bah! That was written by William Cromwell."
"No more of them battle-hymns," Glass ordered.
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