Stacy shot up into the air as if he had been propelled from a bow gun. He struck the soft sand several feet in advance of the pony, his face and head ploughing a little furrow as he drove along on his nose.
He had no more than struck, however, before the irate cowboy had him by the collar and had jerked the lad to his feet.
"You tenderfoot!" he snarled, accenting the words so that they carried a world of meaning with them. "Don't you know any more than to try to get onto a broncho from the off side? Say, don't you?"
He shook the lad violently.
"N-n-n-o," gasped Stacy. "D-d-does it m-m-make any difference w-w-h-i-ch side you get on?"
"Does it make any difference?"
The cowboy jerked his own head up and down as if the words he would utter had wedged fast in his throat.
"Git out of here before I say something. The boss said the first man he heard using language while you tenderfeet were with us, would get fired on the spot."
Without taking the chance of waiting until Stacy had mounted the pony, Lumpy grabbed the boy and tossed him into the saddle, giving the little animal a sharp slap on the flank as he did so.
At first the pony began to buck; then, evidently thinking the effort was not worth while, settled down to a rough trot which soon shook the boy up and thoroughly awakened him.