self-conscious bravado. Warily he surveyed George for a moment--the cool
appraising glance of the ring champion in his corner scanning his
challenger--then, swinging out of the saddle, he dropped his lines and
began to unbuckle his spurs.

There was no mistaking his actions. Redmond followed suit. A few
seconds he looked dubiously at his horse, then back at Yorke.

"Oh, you needn't be scared of Fox beating it," remarked that gentleman a
trifle wearily, "he'll stand as good as old Parson if you chuck his lines
down."

Shading his eyes from the sun-glare he took a rapid survey of their
surroundings, then led the way to a wind-swept patch of ground, more or
less bare of snow. Arriving thither, as if by mutual consent they flung
off caps, side-arms, fur-coats and stable-jackets. Yorke, a graceful,
compactly-built figure of a man, sized up his slightly heavier opponent
with an approving eye.

"You strip good" he said carelessly. "Well! what's it to be? . . .
'muck' or 'muffin'?"

"'Muffin' of course!" snapped Redmond angrily, "what d'ye take me for?--a
'rough-house meal ticket'?"

"All right!" said Yorke soothingly, "don't lose your temper!"

It may have been a shrewdly-calculated attempt to attain that end; and
yet again it may have been only sheer mechanical habit that prompted him
to stretch forth his hands in the customary salute of the ring.