“Here! where you goin’?” demanded the foreman after the retreating cowboy.
“To see if I can catch that imp of Satan before he does any mischief,” was the reply, shot back over Gimp’s shoulder. “I can’t see how Jerry took the wrong pony.”
“They look a heap alike to a fellow that don’t know much about hosses,” was the answer. “But if he doesn’t know Go Some’s tricks he sure will be throwed, and likely trampled on. Think you can get to him in time?”
“I don’t know. They didn’t say where they was goin’, but I’ll do my best.”
Gimp threw his saddle over his own mount that was having a “breather” after dinner, pulled tight the girths and swung himself up with a peculiar hitch that, as much as had his reputed ability to dance, had gained him his nickname.
“Try down by Bubblin’ Spring,” directed the foreman. “I think I heard the professor say he was goin’ that way, and he asked the boys to stop and flag him if they got the chance. He said he was after some new kind of frog or other. The spring’s full of ’em.”
“All right,” answered Gimp, as he galloped off.
“Queer, though, how Jerry took the wrong pony,” murmured the foreman as he went back to his office. “They look a bit alike—his’n and Go Some, but the last is meaner’n pizen. He’ll trot along with you for an hour or so and then he’ll get as wild as the wust buckin’ bronco that ever stiffened his legs and humped his back. Never could account for it—never. Guess I’ll get rid of him—if Jerry comes out of this all right. If he don’t I’ll shoot the imp.”
“What’s the matter? You got money in the bank?” asked Hinkee Dee, sauntering out of the bunk house.
“Why?” the foreman queried.