"Larry," cried his employer, sharply, "have you lost your head?"
"Ain't they g-g-got you yet?" queried the trainer in a strangling
voice.
"You idiot, I won!"
"What!"
"I won--easy."
"You _won!_" Larry's eyes were starting from his head.
"He sure did," said Stover. "Didn't you think he could?"
Glass apprehended that look of suspicion. "Certainly!" said he.
"Didn't I say so, all along? Now take that clothesline off of me;
I've got to run some more."
That evening J. Wallingford Speed and Helen Blake sat together in
the hammock, and much of the time her hand was in his. The breath
of the hills wandered to them idly, fragrant with the odors of
the open fields, the heavens were bright with dancing stars, the
night itself was made for romance. From the bunk-house across the
court-yard floated the voice of the beloved Echo Phonograph, now
sad, now gay; now shrilling the peaceful air with Mme. Melba's
_Holy City_, now waking the echoes with the rasping
reflections of _Silas on Fifth Avenue._ To the spellbound
audience gathered close beside it, it was divine; but deep as was
their satisfaction, it could not compare with that of the tired
young son of Eli.
Pages:
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245