Their childish faces were bright with glee.

In the midst of it Wilburson entered. Wilburson worked; not too much, though. He had hold of the Mexican end of a great importing house of New York, and as he was a junior partner he worked. But not too much, though. »What's the howl?« he said.

The Kids giggled. »We've got Freddie rattled.«

»Why,« said Freddie, turning to him, »these two Indians are trying to tell me that Pop can beat me running.«

»Like the devil,« said Wilburson, incredulously.

»Well, can't he?« demanded a Kid.

»Why, certainly not,« said Wilburson, dismissing every possibility of it with a gesture. »That old bat? Certainly not. I'll bet fifty dollars that Freddie –«

»Take you,« said a Kid.

»What?« said Wilburson, »that Freddie won't beat Pop?«

The Kid that had spoken now nodded his head.

»That Freddie won't beat Pop?« repeated Wilburson.

»Yes. It's a go?«

»Why, certainly,« retorted Wilburson. »Fifty? All right.«

»Bet you five bottles on the side,« ventured the other Kid.

»Why, certainly,« exploded Wilburson wrathfully. »You fellows must take me for something easy. I'll take all those kind of bets I can get. Cer–tain–ly.«

They settled the details. The course was to be paced off on the asphalt of one of the adjacent side-streets, and then, at about eleven o'clock in the evening, the match would be run. Usually in Mexico the streets of a city grow lonely and dark but a little time after nine o'clock. There are occasional lurking figures, perhaps, but no crowds, lights, noise. The course would doubtless be undisturbed. As for the policemen in the vicinity, they – well, they were conditionally amiable.

The Kids went to see Pop; they told him of the arrangements, and then in deep tones they said: »Oh, Pop, if you throw us!«

Pop appeared to be a trifle shaken by the weight of responsibility thrust upon him, but he spoke out bravely. »Boys, I'll pinch that race. Now you watch me. I'll pinch it.«

The Kids went then on some business of their own, for they were not seen again until evening. When they returned to the neighborhood of the Café Colorado the usual evening stream of carriages was whirling along the calle. The wheels hummed on the asphalt, and the coachmen towered in their great sombreros. On the sidewalk a gazing crowd sauntered, the better class self-satisfied and proud, in their derby hats and cutaway coats, the lower classes muffling their dark faces in their blankets, slipping along in leather sandals. An electric light sputtered and fumed over the throng. The afternoon shower had left the pave wet and glittering. The air was still laden with the odor of rain on flowers, grass, leaves.

In the Café Colorado a cosmopolitan crowd ate, drank, played billiards, gossiped, or read in the glaring yellow light. When the Kids entered a large circle of men that had been gesticulating near the bar greeted them with a roar.

»Here they are now!«

»Oh, you pair of peaches!«

»Say, got any more money to bet with?«

The Kids smiled complacently. Old Colonel Hammigan, grinning, pushed his way to them. »Say, boys, we'll all have a drink on you now because you won't have any money after eleven o'clock.