Going Some | Page 6

like tassels. He was loose and spineless, his
movements tempered with the slothfulness of the far Southwest. His
appearance gave one the impression that ready-made garments are
never long enough. He dusted his boots with his sombrero and cleared
his throat.
"'Evening, Miss Jean. Is Mr. Chapin around?"
"I think you'll find him down by the spring-house. Can I do anything
for you?"
"Nope!" Stover sighed heavily, and got his frame gradually into motion
again.

"You're not looking well, Stover. Are you ill?" inquired Miss Chapin.
"Not physical," said the foreman, checking the movement which had
not yet communicated itself the entire length of his frame. "I reckon my
sperret's broke, that's all."
"Haven't you recovered from that foot-race?"
"I have not, and I never will, so long as that ornery Centipede outfit has
got it on us."
"Nonsense, Stover!"
"What have they done?" inquired Miss Blake, curiously. "I haven't
heard about any foot-race."
"You tell her," said the man, with another sigh, and a hopeless gesture
that told the depth of his feelings.
"Why, Stover hired a fellow a couple of months ago as a horse-
wrangler. The man said he was hungry, and made a good impression,
so we put him on."
Here Stover slowly raised one booted foot and kicked his other calf.
"The boys nicknamed him Humpy Joe--"
"Why, poor thing! Was he humpbacked?" inquired Helen.
"No," answered Still Bill. "Humpback is lucky. We called him Humpy
Joe because when it came to running he could sure get up and hump
himself."
"Soon after Joseph went to work," Jean continued, "the Centipede outfit
hired a new cook. You know the Centipede Ranch--the one you see
over yonder by the foot-hills."
"It wasn't 'soon after,' it was simuletaneous," said Stover, darkly.
"We're beginnin' to see plain at last." He went on as if to air the injury
that was gnawing him. "One day we hear that this grub-slinger over

yonder thinks he can run, which same is as welcome to us as the smell
of flowers on a spring breeze, for Humpy Joe had amused us in his idle
hours by running jack-rabbits to earth--"
"Not really?" said Miss Blake.
"Well, no, but from what we see we judge he'd ought to limp a hundred
yards in about nothing and three-fifths seconds, so we frame a race
between him and the Centipede cook."
"As a matter of fact, there has been a feud for years between the two
outfits," Jean offered.
"With tumulchous joy we bet our wages and all the loose gear we have,
and in a burst of childish enthusiasm we put up--the talking-machine."
"A phonograph?"
"Yes. An Echo Phonograph," said Miss Chapin.
"Of New York and Paris," added Stover.
"Our boys won it from this very Centipede outfit at a bronco- busting
tournament in Cheyenne."
"Wyoming." Stover made the location definite.
"The Centipede crowd took their defeat badly on Frontier Day, and
swore to get even."
"And was Humpy Joe defeated?" asked Helen.
"Was he?" Still Bill shook his head sadly, and sighed for a third time.
"It looked like he was running backward, miss."
"But really he was only beaten a foot. It was a wonderful race. I saw
it," said Jean. "It made me think of the races at college."
Miss Blake puckered her brows trying to think.

"Joseph," she said. "No, I don't think I have seen him."
Stover's lips met grimly. "I don't reckon you have, miss. Since that race
he has been hard to descry. He passed from view hurriedly, so to speak,
headed toward the foot-hills, and leaping from crag to crag like the
hardy shamrock of the Swiss Yelps."
Miss Blake giggled. "What made him hurry so?"
"Us!" Stover gazed at her solemnly. "We ain't none of us been the same
since that foot-race. You see, it ain't the financial value of that Echo
Phonograph, nor the 'double-cross' that hurts: it's the fact that the
mangiest outfit in the Territory has trimmed us out of the one thing that
stands for honor and excellence and 'scientific attainment,' as the judge
said when we won it. That talking-machine meant more to us than you
Eastern folks can understand, I reckon."
"If I were you I would cheer up," said Miss Blake, kindly, and with
some importance. "Miss Chapin has a college friend coming this week,
and he can win back your trophy."
Stover glanced up at Jean quickly.
"Is that right, Miss Chapin?"
"He can if he will," Jean asserted.
"Can he run?"
"He is the intercollegiate champion," declared that young lady, with
proud dignity.
"And do you reckon he'd run for us and the Echo Phonograph of New
York and Paris, if we framed a race? It's an honor!"
But Miss Chapin suddenly recalled her brother's caution of the day