"Why, that's part of his 'work.' He's
double-crossed every runnin' mate he ever had. He'd cheat his
mother. Wait!"
Skinner had left the crowd, and was seated now in the shade of
the corral fence. He glanced upward from beneath his black brows
as Larry reached and greeted him. "Hello, Whiz! I just 'made'
you--" Then he shook his head.
"I haven't got you. My name is Skinner."
"Nix on that monaker," Glass smiled, indulgently. "I had a man in
that Sheffield Handicap six years ago."
"You're in bad," asserted the cook steadily, "but assuming that
my name _is_ Long--"
"I didn't say your name was 'Long.' I called you 'Whiz.'" Glass
chuckled at the point as he scored it. "Now come in; be good."
Skinner darted a look toward Gallagher and the Centipede men
gathered about the shrilling phonograph, stooped and tied his
shoes, and breathed softly:
"Spiel!"
"This little feller I'm trainin'--does he win?"
Without an upward glance, Skinner inquired:
"Did the man you trained for the Sheffield Handicap win?"
"Never mind that. Does this frame-up go through?" It happened
that Speed, drawn irresistibly, had come forward to hang upon
every word, and now chose this moment to interrupt.
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