Going Some | Page 9

railroad. He's a guest."
"Oh!"
"Yep! He's intercollegit champeen of Yale."
"Yale?" repeated the near-sighted man. "Don't know's I ever been there.
Much of a town?"
"I ain't never travelled East myself, but Miss Jean and the little
yaller-haired girl say he's the fastest man in the world. I figgered we
might rib up something with the Centipede." Still Bill winked sagely.
"See here, do you reckon he'd run?"
"Sure! He's a friend of the boss. And he'll run on the level, too. He can't
be nothin' like Humpy."
"If he is, I'll git him," said the cowboy. "Oh, I'll git him sure, guest or
no guest. But how about the phonograph?"
"The Centipede will put it up quick enough; there ain't no sentiment in
that outfit."
"Then it sounds good."
"An' it'll work. Gallagher's anxious to trim us again. Some folks can't
stand prosperity."
Willie spat unerringly at a grasshopper. "Lord!" said he, "it's too good!
It don't sound possible."
"Well, it is, and our man will be here this evenin'. Watch out for Nigger
Mike, and when he drives up let's give this party a welcome that'll
warm his heart on the jump. There's nothin' like a good impression."
"I'll be on the job," assured Willie. "But I state right here and now, if
we do get a race there ain't a-goin' to be no chance of our losin' for a

second time."
And Stover went on his way to spread the tidings.
It was growing dark when the rattle of wheels outside the ranch- house
brought the occupants to the porch in time to see Nigger Mike halt his
buck-board and two figures prepare to descend.
"It's Mr. Speed!" cried Miss Blake. Then she uttered a scream as the
velvet darkness was rent by a dozen tongues of flame, while a shrill
yelping arose, as of an Apache war-party.
"It's the boys," said Jean. "What on earth has possessed them?"
But Stover had planned no ordinary reception, and the pandemonium
did not cease until the men had emptied their weapons.
Then Mr. J. Wallingford Speed came stumbling up the steps and into
the arms of his friends, the tails of his dust-coat streaming.
"Really? This is more than I expected," he gasped; then turning, doffed
his straw hat to the half-revealed figures beyond the light, and cried,
gayly: "Thank you, gentlemen! Thank you for missing me!"
"Yow--ee!" responded the cowboys.
"How do you do, Miss Chapin!" Speed shook hands with his hostess,
and in the radiance from the open doorway she saw that his face was
round and boyish, and his smile peculiarly engaging.
She welcomed him appropriately; then said: "This reception is quite as
startling to us as to you. You know, Mr. Speed, that we have with us a
friend of yours." She slightly drew Helen forward. "And this is Mrs.
Keap, who is looking after us a bit while mother is away. Roberta, may
I present Mr. Covington's friend, and ask you to be good to him?"
"Don't forget me," said Fresno, pushing into the light.
"Mr. Berkeley Fresno, of Leland Stanford University."

"Hello, Frez!" Speed thrust out his hand warmly. Not so the Californian.
He replied, with hauteur:
"Fresno! F-r-e-s-n-o"; and allowed the new-comer to grasp a limp,
moist hand.
"Ah! Go to the head of the class! I'm sorry you broke your wrist,
however." The Eastern lad spoke lightly, and gave the palm a hearty
squeeze, then turned to Jean.
"I dare say you are all disappointed, Miss Chapin, that Culver didn't
come with me, but he'll be along in a day or so. I simply couldn't wait."
He avoided glancing at Helen Blake, whose answering blush was lost
in the darkness.
"I did think when you drove up that might be Mr. Covington with you,"
Miss Chapin remarked, wistfully.
"Oh no, that's my man." Speed glanced around him. "And, by-the- way,
where is he?"
The sound of angry voices came through the gloom, then out into the
light came Still Bill Stover, Willie, and Carara, dragging between them
a globular person who was rebelling loudly.
"Stover, what is this?" questioned Miss Chapin, stepping to the edge of
the veranda.
"This gent stampedes in the midst of our welcome," explained the
foreman, "so we have to rope him before he gets away." It was seen
now that Carara's lariat was tightly drawn about the new arrival's waist.
Then the valet broke into coherent speech, but he spoke a tongue not
common to his profession.
"Nix on that welcome stuff," he burst forth, in husky, alcoholic accents;
"that goes on the door-mat!" It was plain that he was very angry. "If
that racket means welcome, I don't want it. Take that clothes-line off of

me." Carara loosened the noose, and his captive rolled up the steps