Hootmon applied his spurs to his horse’s flanks, and cantered up the hill in the direction of the corrals, there to recount to an interested audience old Bully Bill’s discomfiture and amazement.
Things move slowly in a ranching country, and not every day does the Lord deposit a whole vaudeville act at the door of a ranch house.
Sandy, seeking to curry favour with the confounded foreman, winked at him broadly, and then deliberately pricked the rump of the unfortunate Silver Heels with a pin. Kicking around in a circle, the bronco backed and bucked in the direction of the man upon the grass, now sitting up and tenderly examining an evidently bruised shin.
At this juncture, the long-suffering Silver Heels developed an unexpected will of his own. Shaking himself violently from side to side, he reared up on his hind legs, and by a dash forward of his peppery young head, he jerked the reins from the hands of the surprised lad, who shot into the air and nearly fell into the lap of the Englishman.
That individual gripped the boy’s arm tightly and swung him neatly to his side.
“You leggo my arm!”
Sandy squirmed from the surprisingly iron grip of the visitor.
The tramp, as they believed him to be, was now sitting up erectly, with that sublime, smooth air of cheerful condescension which Canadians so loathe in an Englishman.
“Cheerio, old man!” said he, and slapped the unwillingly impressed youngster upon the back. “Not hurt much—what?”
“Hurt—nothing! Whacha take me for?”