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