"Name's Skinner," Willie observed. "It sure sounds bad." "I'm sorry Humpy left us so sudden," said Still Bill. "We'd ought to have questioned him. If we only had proof that the race was crooked--" "You can so gamble it was crooked," the little man averred. "Them Centipede fellers never done nothin' on the square. They got Humpy Joe, and fixed it for him to lose so they could get that talkin'-machine. That's why he pulled out." "I'd hate to think it," said the foreman, gloomily; then after a moment, during which the only sound was that of the muffled hoof- beats: "Well, what we goin' to do about it?" "Humph! I've laid awake nights figurin' that out. I reckon we'll just have to git another foot-racer and beat Skinner. He ain't the fastest in the world." "That takes coin. We're broke." "Mebbe Mr. Chapin would lend a helpin' hand." "No chance!" said Stover, grimly. "He's sore on foot-racin'. Says it disturbs us and upsets our equalubrium." Carara fetched a deep sigh. "It's ver' bad t'ing, Senor. I don' feel no worse w'en my gran'mother die." The three men loped onward through the darkness, weighted heavily with disappointment. Affairs at the Flying Heart Ranch were not all to Jack Chapin's liking. Ever since that memorable foot-race, more than a month before, a gloom had brooded over the place which even the presence of two Smith College girls, not to mention that of Mr. Fresno, was unable to dissipate. The cowboys moped about like melancholy shades, and neglected their work to discuss the disgrace that had fallen upon them. It was a task to get any of them out in the morning, several had quit, the rest were quarrelling among themselves, and the bunk-house had already been the scene of more than one encounter, altogether too sanguinary to have originated from such a trivial cause as a foot-race. It was not exactly an auspicious atmosphere in which to entertain a houseful of college boys and girls, all unversed in the ways of the West. The master of the ranch sought his sister Jean, to tell her