"What's up?" questioned Dick, "anything wrong?"

"No, not 'specially," answered Sandy, slightly at a loss as to the best
way to bring up the subject. "Yuh see, it's this way. Some o' the boys
has heard thet your pal, Wilson, is somethin' of a runner, and we was
jest cur'ous to know ef it was so. Can you wise us up on this yere mooted
p'int?"

Dick looked over at Tom and grinned. "You tell 'em, Tom," he said; "tell
them whether Bert can run or not."

"Well," said Tom, "Bert isn't such an awful good runner, no. He's never
done a thing in that line except win the Marathon run at the last Olympic
games, break every college record from one to twenty-five miles, and set
up a new world's record for the five mile distance. Outside of that he
can't run worth a cent, can he, Dick?"

For a moment Dick was too amused watching the faces of the two ranchmen
to answer. "Wh-what are yuh tryin' t' hand us, anyhow," demanded Chip.
"Do yuh really mean he's the same Wilson thet won the big Marathon race?"

"Straight goods," answered Dick; "if you don't believe it, ask Melton."

"Whoop-ee!" yelled Sandy, throwing his sombrero high in the air and
catching it deftly as it descended. "No wonder he seemed so confident
when he offered to run fer us. At thet time I kind a' thought he was jest
stringin' us along."

"You'll find that when Bert says a thing he generally means it," remarked