touched her nearly, and tears flooded her eyes.

"I know, Dad. I . . . I'll be good."

A young man descended from the car, handsome, trim, and well got up.
He had been tailored by the best man's outfitter in New York. Nobody
on Broadway could order a dinner better than he. The latest dances he
could do perfectly. He had the reputation of knowing exactly the best
thing to say on every occasion. Now he proceeded to say it.

"Corking bit of riding--never saw better. I'll give you my hand on
that, my man."

The cowpuncher found a bunch of manicured fingers in his rough brown
paw. He found something else, for after the pink hand had gone there
remained a fifty-dollar bill. He looked at it helplessly for a moment;
then, beneath the brown outdoor tan, a flush of anger beat into his
face. Without a word he leaned forward and pressed the note into the
mouth of the bronco.

The buckskin knew its master for a very good friend. If he gave it
something to eat--well, there was no harm in trying it once. The
buckskin chewed placidly for a few seconds, decided that this was a
practical joke, and ejected from its mouth a slimy green pulp that had
recently been a treasury note.

The father stammered his thanks to the rescuer of the girl. "I don't
know what I can ever do to let you know . . . I don't know how I can
ever pay you for saving . . ."