"No." Willie shook his head. "We just aim to make you _want_
to eat it."
Then Larry Glass made his fatal mistake.
"Say, why don't you let Mr. Speed buy you a new phonograph, and
call the race off?" he inquired.
Stover, stricken dumb, paused, knife in hand; Willie stared as if
bereft of motion. Then the former spoke slowly. "Looks like we'd
ought to smoke up this fat party, Will."
Willie nodded, and Glass realized that the little man's steel-
blue eyes were riveted balefully upon him.
"I've had a hunch it would come to that," the near-sighted one
replied. "Every time I look at him I see a bleedin' bullet-hole
in his abominable regions, about here." He laid a finger upon his
stomach, and Glass felt a darting pain at precisely the same
spot. It was as agonizing as if Willie's spectacles were huge
burning-glasses focussing the rays of a tropic sun upon his bare
flesh. He folded protecting hands over the threatened region and
backed toward the prayer-rug, mumbling "Allah! Allah!" No matter
whither he shifted, the eyes bored into him.
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