They got on their horses at length, and Dig attempted to lead his prize. Instantly the maverick set all four hoofs in the soft prairie and braced himself against the line. But Dig had his line fastened to the fork of the saddle and the yearling could not pull Poke over.
The mustang snorted and dragged the maverick over the torn sod. The latter animal could not blat, for its wind was shut off.
“Hi!” cried Chet. “You’ll stretch its neck until it will look like a giraffe. Then you’ll never sell it at Grub Stake for a pet or for anything else.”
“Get better money for it,” declared Dig grimly. “It would sell for a freak in a circus. And, by Jo! it’s got to come.”
Chet watched the tug of war for some minutes further before asking, seriously:
“You haven’t called it anything yet, have you, Dig?”
“Called it anything?” protested his chum. “I’ve called it everything I dared aloud, and a whole lot of names that don’t sound well to myself!”
“Oh, no—I mean a real name,” said Chet, chuckling. “You haven’t named it yet?”
“Haven’t had time,” returned Dig innocently enough. “I been too busy trying to make the darned thing behave.”
“Well, I’d like to suggest a name for it,” said Chet.