“See here, you’ve guessed what all the racket is about, I just know you have,” the other cried, as his suspicions were aroused by Donald’s manner.
“Well, I’ve been thinking something for a little while now, even if I didn’t say a word about the same,” admitted Donald, laughing.
“And you won’t tell me?” urged his comrade.
“What’s the use at this late stage of the game?” replied Donald. “Give Billie a chance to let the cat out of the bag; because there he is, waving to us right now, and wanting us to hurry along.”
When the two who were in the rear came galloping up a couple of minutes later it was a very red-faced and indignant chum they found there, patting the trembling Jupiter tenderly, and even caressing
his velvety muzzle, as though begging his pardon for all that slapping of the cruel quirt.
“But how was I to know that all the while the poor thing was in agony, with me in the saddle pressing these poisoned stickers deeper and deeper into his back? Oh! it was a cruel trick, putting this bunch of sand spurs under the saddle; and no wonder the broncho acted like he was crazy as I jumped up and down, driving the points in deeper. Poor old Jupiter, how was I to know you weren’t to blame?”
[CHAPTER III.—THE FIRST NEWS OF THE BAR-S RANCH.]
“A mean trick!” echoed the indignant Adrian, “I’d like to help whip the fellow who would think it funny to inflict that torture on a poor dumb beast, not to mention having the rider run a chance of breaking his neck. Whoever d’ye think could have been guilty—oh! yes, that grinning hostler at the village tavern. It must have been him!”
“Just who it was!” said Donald, grimly, and his face told how gladly he would have taken pleasure in being one of several to treat the ugly-faced half-grown cub to a good hiding, to pay him for his detestable trick.