"What was that?" Now it must be admitted that J. Wallingford Speed, in his relations with the other sex, frequently found himself in a position requiring mental gymnastics of a high order; but, as a rule, his memory was good, and he seldom crossed his own trail, so to speak. In this instance he was utterly without remembrance, however, and hence was non-committal. "What you told me about your friendship for Mr. Covington. I think it is very unselfish of you." "Oh, I wouldn't say that," ventured the young man, vainly racking his brain. "Nobody could help liking Culver." "Yes; but how many men would step aside and let their best friend win prize after prize and never undertake to compete against him?" Speed blushed faintly, as any modest man might have done. "Did I tell you that?" he inquired. "Indeed you did." "Then please don't speak of it to a mortal soul. I must have said a great deal that first day, but--" "But I _have_ spoken of it, and I said I thought it was fine of you." "You have spoken of it?" "Yes; I told Jean." The Yale man undertook to change the conversation abruptly, but Miss Blake was a determined young lady. She continued: "Of course, it was very magnanimous of you to always step aside in favor of your best friend; but it isn't fair to yourself--it really isn't. And so I have arranged a little plan whereby you can do something to prove your prowess, and still not interfere with Mr. Covington in the least." Speed cleared his throat nervously. "Tell me," he said, "what it is." And Miss Blake told him the story of the shocking treachery of Humpy Joe, together with the miserable undoing of the Flying Heart. "Why, those poor fellows are broken-hearted," she concluded. "Their despair over losing that talking-machine would be funny if it were not so tragic. I told them you would win it back for them. And you will, won't you? Please!" She turned her blue eyes upon him appealingly, and the young man was lost. "I'll take ten chances," he said. "Where does the raffle come off?" "Oh, it isn't a raffle, it's a foot-race. You must run with that Centipede cook." "I! Run a race!" exclaimed the young college man, aghast. "Yes, I've promised that you would. You see, this isn't like a college event, and Culver isn't here yet." "But he'll be here in a day or so." Speed felt as if a very large man were choking him; he decided his collar was too tight. "Oh, I've talked it all over with Jean. She doesn't want Culver to run, anyhow." "Why not?" inquired he, suspiciously. "I don't know, I'm sure." "If Miss Chapin doesn't want Culver to run, you surely wouldn't want me to." "Not at all. If Mr. Covington knew the facts of the case, he would be only too happy to do it. And, you see, _you_ know the facts." Speed was about to shape a gracious but firm refusal of the proffered honor when Still Bill Stover appeared at the steps, doffed his faded Stetson, and bowed limply.