Say he wouldn't do a thing but howl! He'd go crazy.«

They looked at Pop as if they longed to be certain that he was, after all, a runner. »Say, now, Pop, on the level,« said one of them wistfully, »can you run?«

»Boys,« swore Pop, »I'm a peach! On the dead level, I'm a peach.«

»By golly, I believe the old Indian can run,« said one to the other, as if they were alone in conference.

»That's what I can,« cried Pop.

The Kids said: »Well, so long, old man.« They went to a table and sat down. They ordered a salad. They were always ordering salads. This was because one Kid had a wild passion for salads, and the other didn't care much. So at any hour of the day or night they might be seen ordering a salad. When this one came they went into a sort of executive session. It was a very long consultation. Some of the men noted it; they said there was deviltry afoot. Occasionally the Kids laughed in supreme enjoyment of something unknown. The low rumble of wheels came from the street. Often could be heard the parrot-like cries of distant vendors. The sunlight streamed through the green curtains, and made some little amber-colored flitterings on the marble floor. High up among the severe decorations of the ceiling – reminiscent of the days when the great building was a palace – a small white butterfly was wending through the cool air spaces. The long billiard hall stretched back to a vague gloom. The balls were always clicking, and one could see endless elbows crooking. Beggars slunk through the wicker doors, and were ejected by the nearest waiter. At last the Kids called Pop to them.

»Sit down, Pop. Have a drink.« They scanned him carefully. »Say now, Pop, on your solemn oath, can you run?«

»Boys,« said Pop piously, and raising his hand, »I can run like a rabbit.«

»On your oath?«

»On my oath.«

»Can you beat Freddie?«

Pop appeared to look at the matter from all sides. »Well, boys, I'll tell you. No man is cock-sure of anything in this world, and I don't want to say that I can best any man, but I've seen Freddie run, and I'm ready to swear I can beat 'im. In a hundred yards I'd just about skin 'im neat – you understand – just about neat. Freddie is a good average runner, but I – you understand – I'm just – a little – bit – better.« The Kids had been listening with the utmost attention. Pop spoke the latter part slowly and meaningly. They thought he intended them to see his great confidence.

One said: »Pop, if you throw us in this thing, we'll come here and drink for two weeks without paying. We'll back you and work a josh on Freddie! But oh! – if you throw us!«

To this menace Pop cried: »Boys, I'll make the run of my life! On my oath!«

The salad having vanished, the Kids arose. »All right, now,« they warned him. »If you play us for duffers, we'll get square. Don't you forget it.«

»Boys, I'll give you a race for your money.