"I'd hate to think it," said the foreman, gloomily; then after a
moment, during which the only sound was that of the muffled hoof-
beats: "Well, what we goin' to do about it?"

"Humph! I've laid awake nights figurin' that out. I reckon we'll
just have to git another foot-racer and beat Skinner. He ain't
the fastest in the world."

"That takes coin. We're broke."

"Mebbe Mr. Chapin would lend a helpin' hand."

"No chance!" said Stover, grimly. "He's sore on foot-racin'. Says
it disturbs us and upsets our equalubrium."

Carara fetched a deep sigh.

"It's ver' bad t'ing, Senor. I don' feel no worse w'en my
gran'mother die."

The three men loped onward through the darkness, weighted heavily
with disappointment.

Affairs at the Flying Heart Ranch were not all to Jack Chapin's
liking. Ever since that memorable foot-race, more than a month
before, a gloom had brooded over the place which even the
presence of two Smith College girls, not to mention that of Mr.
Fresno, was unable to dissipate. The cowboys moped about like
melancholy shades, and neglected their work to discuss the