"And sweet," said Willie. "God! It's sure sweet!" "Why, we was a passel of savages on this ranch till we got it--no sentiment, no music, no nothin' in our souls--except profanity and thirst. Then everything changed." Stover nodded gravely. "We got gentle. That music mellered us up. We got so we was as full of brotherly love as a basket of kittens. Some of the boys commenced writin' home; Cloudy begin to pay his poker debts. You'd scarcely hear enough profanity to make things bearable. I tell you it was refined. It got so that when a man came steamin' in after a week's high life and low company in town, his wages gone, and his stummick burnin' like he'd swallered all his cigar- butts, it didn't make no difference if he found a herd of purple crocodiles in his blankets, or the bunk-house walls a-crawlin' with Gila monsters. Little things like that wouldn't phaze him! He'd switch on the Echo Phonograph and doze off like a babe in arms, for the tender notes of Madam-o-sella Melby in _The Holy City_ would soothe and comfort him like the caressin' hand of a young female woman." "I begin to feel your loss," said Speed, gravely. "Gentlemen, I can only assure you I shall do my best." "Then you won't take no chances?" inquired Willie, mildly. "You may rely upon me to take care of myself." "Thank you!" The delegation moved away. "What d'you think of him?" inquired Stover of the little man in glasses, when they were out of hearing. "I think he's all right," Willie hesitated, "only kind of crazy, like all Eastern boys. It don't seem credible that no sane man would dast to bluff after what we've said. He'd be flyin' in the face of Providence." But this comforting conclusion wavered again, when Berkeley Fresno, who had awaited their report, scoffed openly. "He can't run! If he could run he'd be running. I tell you, he can't run as fast as a sheep can walk." "Senor, you see those beautiful medal he have?" expostulated Carara. "Sure," agreed Willie. "His brisket was covered with 'em. He had one that hung down like a dewlap." "Phony!" "I've killed men for less," muttered the stoop-shouldered man. "Did you see his legs?" Fresno was bent upon convincing his hearers. "Couldn't help but see 'em in that runnin'-suit." "Nice and soft and white, weren't they?" "They didn't look like dark meat," Stover agreed, reluctantly. "But you can't go nothin' on the looks of a feller's legs." "Well, then, take his wind. A runner always has good lungs, but I'll bet if you snapped him on the chest with a rubber band he'd cough himself to death." "Mebbe he ain't in good shape yet." Fresno sneered. "No, and he'll never get into good condition with those girls hanging around him all the time. Don't you know that the worst thing in the world for an athlete is to talk to a woman?" "That's the worst thing in the world for anybody," said Willie, with cynicism. "But how can we stop it?"