Bryce was vanquished, and an acute sense of his imperfections in
matters geographical inclined him to end the argument. "Well, maybe
you're right," he admitted grudgingly. "Anyhow, what difference does
it make?"

She did not answer. Evidently she was desirous of avoiding an
argument if possible. Her gaze wandered past Bryce to where his
Indian pony stood with her head out the window of her box-stall
contemplating her master.

"Oh, what a dear little horse!" Shirley Sumner exclaimed. "Whose is
he?"

"'Tain't a he. It's a she. And she belongs to me."

"Do you ride her?"

"Not very often now. I'm getting too heavy for her, so Dad's bought
me a horse that weighs nine hundred pounds. Midget only weighs five
hundred." He considered her a moment while she gazed in awe upon this
man with two horses. "Can you ride a pony?" he asked, for no reason
that he was aware of.

She sighed, shaking her head resignedly. "We haven't any room to keep
a pony at our house in Detroit," she explained, and added hopefully:
"But I'd love to ride on Midget. I suppose I could learn to ride if
somebody taught me how."

He looked at her again. At that period of his existence he was
inclined to regard girls as a necessary evil. For some immutable