"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?" "Make him eat as well as sleep in his training-quarters; don't let him spend any time whatever in female company. Keep your eyes on him night and day." Willie spoke his mind deliberately. "I'm in favor of that. If this is another Humpy Joe affair I'm a-goin' to put one more notch in my gun-handle, and it looks like a cub bear had chawed it already." "There ain't but one thing to do," Stover announced, firmly. "We've got to put it up to Mr. Glass and learn the truth." "You'll find him in the bunk-house," directed Fresno. "I think I'll trail along and hear what he has to say." CHAPTER IX Glass had gone to the cowboys' sleeping-quarters in search of his employer, and was upon the point of leaving when the delegation filed in. He regarded them with careless contempt, and removed his clay pipe to exclaim, cheerfully: "B--zoo gents! Where's my protege?"