Chip. "I was up in a little town over the Canada border at the time, an'
they had jest had a race like this yere one we-all has on the Fourth o'
July, only they ain't no sech institution there, them folks bein' nothin'
but benighted Britishers and Frenchmen. Howsum-ever, they'd had a race,
and this maverick what's pointed out to me in Helena had won the race,
together with most o' the loose change in the town. Suddenly a guy in the
crowd yells out: 'That feller's a 'ringer.' I seen him run in an Eastern
professional race onct.'"

"Waal, thet was like puttin' a match to powder, and them people was goin'
to string the guy up, only the sheriff came along jest then and stopped
the proceedin's. So that's when I see this party last."

"Yes, but he might not have been a 'ringer'," suggested Bert, who had
come up and joined the group while Chip was speaking. "He might have
been square, but the man that accused him probably had lost money, and
may have accused him just to get even. You don't have to prove much to an
angry mob when they want to believe what you're telling them, anyway."

"Yes, I thought o' that," replied Chip, "but a few weeks arterward I come
across an old newspaper with this party's picture engraved on the
sportin' page, an' underneath it said, 'Albert Summers, the well-known
professional one-mile runner,' or words meanin' the same thing. I'd clean
forgot about it, though, until I sees this yere hoss thief paradin' the
streets o' Helena followed by the admirin' glances o' the populace."

The cowboys exchanged indignant glances, and Sandy said, "Mebbe the folks
in Helena don't know this maverick's a professional."

"I suppose most o' them don't," replied Chip, "but the officials thet