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Updated: May 13, 2025
The little man shifted his feet; then allowed himself to inquire, as if regarding the habits of some dear departed friend: "Have you chose any favorite records?" "We all has our picks. Speakin' personal, I'm stuck on that baggage coach song of Mrs. More's." "Moray!" Willie corrected. "M-o-r-a! Heleney Moray is the lady's name." "Mebbe so. Our foot-runner likes that Injun war-dance best of all."
There were also stories of lonesome "run-ins," which, owing to Willie's secretiveness and the permanent silence of the other participants, never became more than intangible rumors. But he was a good ranchman, attended to his business, and the sheriff's office was remote, so Willie had worked on unmolested. "This here is a real foot-runner," said Stover. "Exactly," agreed the other. "Where is he?"
"There's something comin' off," he advised Willie. "We've got another foot-runner!" If he had hoped for an outburst of rapture on the part of the little gun man he was disappointed, for Willie shifted his holster, smiled evilly through his glasses, and inquired, with ominous restraint: "Where is he?"
Stover wheeled upon him abruptly. "What's wrong?" "Oh, nothing." After a pause the foreman remarked, vaguely, "He's the intercollegit champeen of Yale." "Oh no, hardly that, or I would have heard of him." "Ain't he no champeen?" "Champion of the running broad smile and the half-mile talk perhaps." "Ain't he a foot-runner?" "Perhaps. I've never seen him run, but I have my doubts."
Now the starter was shaking in an ague of fury. "Listen, you!" he chattered, shrilly. "I'm goin' to shoot twice this time once in the air, and the next time at the nearest foot-runner. Now, get set!" and the speaker pulled trigger, whereupon Speed leaped as if the bullet had been aimed at him.
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