"Say, Mr. Fresno! Which direction is New York?" "That way." Fresno pointed to the east, and the other man stared longingly out through the bunk-house window. "It's quite a walk, ain't it?" "Walk?" Berkeley laughed. "It's two or three thousand miles!" Glass sighed heavily. "Why do you ask?" "Oh, nothin'. Jest gettin' homesick." He calmed himself with an effort, entered the gymnasium as if in search of something, and then set forth to find Speed. That ecstatic young gentleman wrenched his gaze away from the blue eyes of Miss Blake to see his trainer signalling him from afar. "What is it, Lawrence?" "Got to see you." "Presently." "Nix! I got to see you _now!_" Glass's ruddy face was blotched, and he seemed to rest in the grip of some blighting malady. Beneath his arm he carried a tight-rolled bundle. Sensing something important back of this unusual demeanor, Speed excused himself and followed Larry, who did not trust to speech until they were alone in the gymnasium with the doors closed. Then he unrolled the bundle he carried, spread it upon the floor, and stepped into its exact centre. "Are you standing on my prayer-rug?" demanded his companion, angrily. "I am! And from this on I'm goin' to make it work itself to death. She said a feller couldn't get hurt if he stood on it and said 'Allah.' Well, I'm goin' to wear it out." "What's wrong?" "Do you know what's goin' to happen to me if Covington don't get here and beat this cook?" "Happen to you?" "Yes, me! These outlaws have put it up to me to win this bet for them."