For nearly an hour the partners discussed the situation while the Mexican maid retained her position; then, when Glass was on the verge of making a desperate sally, Cloudy entered silently. Although this had been an unhappy morning for the trainer, here at least was one person of whom he had no fear, and his natural optimism being again to the fore, he greeted the Indian lightly. "Well, how's the weather, Cloudy?" "Mr. Cloudy to you," said the other. Both Glass and his protege stared. It was the first word the Indian had uttered since their arrival. Lawrence winked at his companion. "All right, if you like it better. How's the weather, Mister Cloudy?" He snickered at his own joke, whereupon the aborigine turned upon him slowly, and said, in perfect English: "Your humor is misplaced with me. Don't forget, Mr. Glass, that the one Yale football team you trained, I dropped a goal on from the forty-five-yard line." Glass allowed his mouth to open in amazement. The day was replete with surprises. "'96!" he said, while the light of understanding came over him. "You're Cloudy-but-the-Sun-Shines?" "Yes--Carlisle." Cloudy threw back his head, and pointed with dignity to the flag of his Alma Mater hanging upon the wall. "By Jove, I remember that!" exclaimed Speed. "So will Yale so long as she lives," predicted the Indian, grimly. "You crippled me in the second half"--he stirred his withered leg--"but I dropped it on you; and--I have not forgotten." He ground the last sentence between his teeth. "See here, Bo--Mr. Cloudy. You don't blame us for that?" Cloudy grunted, and threw a yellow envelope on the floor at Speed's feet. "There is something for you," said he, while his lips curled. He turned, and limped silently to the door. "And I tried to kid him!" breathed Glass with disgust, when the visitor had gone. "I ain't been in right since Garfield was shot." "It's a telegram from Covington!" cried Speed, tearing open the message. "At last!" "Thank the Lord!" Glass started forward eagerly. "When'll he be here? Quick!" Then he paused. J. Wallingford Speed had gone deathly pale, and was reeling slightly. "What's wrong?" The college man made uncertainly for his bed, murmuring incoherently: "I--I'm sick! I'm sick, Larry!" He fell limply at full length, and groaned, "Call the race off!" Glass snatched the missive from his employer's nerveless fingers, and read, with bulging eyes, as follows: "J. WALLINGFORD SPEED, _Flying Heart Ranch, Kidder, New Mexico:_ "Don't tip off. Am in jail Omaha. Looks like ten days. "CULVER COVINGTON." The trainer uttered a cry like that of a wounded animal. "Call it off, Larry," moaned the Hope of the Flying Heart. "I've been poisoned!"