Bank on that. I may lose – understand, I may lose – no man can help meeting a better man. But I think I can skin 'im, and I'll give you a run for your money, you bet.«

»All right, then. But, look here,« they told him, »you keep your face closed. Nobody but us gets in on this. Understand?«

»Not a soul,« Pop declared. They left him, gesturing a last warning from the wicker doors.

In the street they saw Benson, his cane gripped in the middle, strolling among the white-clothed jabbering natives on the shady side. They semaphored to him eagerly, their faces ashine with a plot. He came across cautiously, like a man who ventures into dangerous company.

»We're going to get up a race. Pop and Fred. Pop swears he can skin 'im. This is a tip. Keep it dark, now. Say, won't Freddie be hot!«

Benson looked as if he had been compelled to endure these exhibitions of insanity for a century. »Oh, you fellows are off. Pop can't beat Freddie. He's an old bat. Why, it's impossible. Pop can't beat Freddie.«

»Can't he? Want to bet he can't?« said the Kids. »There now, let's see – you're talking so large.«

»Well, you –«

»Oh, bet. Bet or else close your trap. That's the way.«

»How do you know you can pull off the race. Seen Freddie?«

»No, but –«

»Well, see him then. Can't bet now with no race arranged. I'll bet with you all right – all right. Ill give you fellows a tip though – you're a pair of asses. Pop can't run any faster than a brick school-house.«

The Kids scowled at him and defiantly said: »Can't he?« They left him and went to the Casa Verde. Freddie, beautiful in his white jacket, was holding one of his innumerable conversations across the bar. He smiled when he saw them. »Where you boys been?« he demanded, in a paternal tone.