Chapin wheeled. "Does it seem to you quite the thing to bet against our man, Fresno?" he inquired, his glance full in the other's eyes. "Why not? There's no sentiment in financial affairs." Speed shrugged. "Our tenor friend will sing his way back to California." He turned with his thanks to Helen. "The talkin'--machine!" interrupted Still Bill, suddenly. A group of men was approaching, who bore the phonogragh upon a dry-goods box, and deposited it in state beside the race-course. "Say, Gabby, s'pose you give us a tune, just to show she's in good order." "Suspicious, eh?" "You bet! There's a monologue I'd admire to hear. It's called-" "We'll have _The Holy City_," said Willie, positively. "It's more appropriate." So, with clumsy fingers, Gallagher fitted a record, then wound up the machine under the jealous eyes of the Flying Heart cowboys. Drawn by the sound, Skinner, wrapped to the chin in his blanket, idled toward the crowd, affording Glass a sight of his face for the first time. The latter started as if stung, and crying under his breath, "Salted car-horse!" drew his employer aside. "Say," he said, pointing a finger, "who's that?" "Skinner, the man I run." Glass groaned. "His name ain't Skinner; that's 'Whiz' Long. Six years ago I saw him win the Sheffield Handicap from scratch in nine-three." Then, as Speed did not seem to be particularly pressed, "Don't you understand, Wally? He's a pro; this is his game!" To which the younger man replied, serenely and happily, "It's fixed." "What's fixed?" "The race. It' s all arranged--framed." "Who framed it? How? When?" "Sh-h! I did. Yesterday; by stealth; I fixed it." "You win from 'Whiz' Long, and you can't run under fifteen?" Wally nodded. "I told him that--it's all right." "You told him?" Glass staggered. "It's all right? Say! Don't you know he's the fastest, crookedest, cheatingest, double- crossingest--why, he just came to feel you out!" And Speed turned dizzy. "And you fell for that old stuff!" Larry's voice was trembling with anger and disgust. "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?"