He groaned aloud. Forsooth, a broken toe! Of all the countless
tens of thousands of toes in Christendom, the one he had hung his
salvation upon had proven weaker than a reed. What cruel jest of
Fate was this? If Fate had wished to break a toe, why had she not
selected, out of all the billions at her disposal, that of some
other athlete than Culver Covington--even his own.
J. Wallingford Speed started suddenly and paled. He had
remembered that no one could force a crippled man to run.
"By Jove," he exclaimed, "I'll do it!"
He crossed quickly to the bunk-house door and looked in. The room
was empty. The supper-bell pealed out, and he heard the cow-men
answer it. Now was the appointed moment; he might have no other.
With cat-like tread he slipped into the sleeping-quarters,
returning in a moment with a revolver. He stared thankfully at
the weapon--better this than dishonor.
"Why didn't I think of it before? It's perfectly simple. I'll
accidentally shoot myself--in the foot."
But even as he gazed at the gun he saw that the muzzle was as
large as a gopher-hole.
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