good old pal.

"Here's your chance for a fine bit," called Baird. "Give it to us
now the way you did in that still. Broaden it all you want to. Go to
it."

Well did Merton Gill know that here was his chance for a fine bit.
The horse was strangely like Dexter upon whom he had so often
rehearsed this bit. He was a bony, drooping, sad horse with a thin
neck. "They're takin' ye frum me, old pal--takin' ye frum me. You
an' me has seen some tough times an' I sort o' figgered we'd keep on
together till the last--an' now they got me, old pal, takin' me far
away where ye won't see me no more--"

"Go to it, cowboy--take all the footage you want!" called Baird in a
curiously choked voice.

The actor took some more footage. "But we got to keep a stiff upper
lip, old pal, you and me both. No cryin', no bustin' down. We had
out last gallop together, an' we're at the forkin' of th' trail. So
we got to be brave--we got to stand the gaff."

Benson released his old pal, stood erect, dashed a bit of moisture
from his eyes, and turned to the waiting detective who, it seemed,
had also been strangely moved during this affecting farewell. Yet he
had not forgotten his duty. Benson was forced to march back into the
Come All Ye Dance Hall. As he went he was wishing that Baird would
have him escape and flee on his old pal.

And Baird was a man who seemed to think of everything, or perhaps he