Before the yells of "Bravo!" and "Bully boy!" had subsided, Jack Conroy slipped to the ground, handed the reins to one of the cowboys, and walked unsteadily to the corral wall, his head in a whirl.
"You've done splendidly, Conroy," exclaimed Mr. Irwin.
The big boy's brain was clearing; he began to swell up with pride.
"I knew I could manage him," he remarked, modestly. "A chap only has to make up his mind to tame 'em. A bronc can tell who's his master every time—remember that, fellows. It's keepin' up your nerve that counts. You see—"
"Oh, you can cut it out, Jacky," roared Tom. "Don't lean against that wall so hard. You might push it over."
"Well, there's one thing I can't allow you to cut out, and that is having supper with us," interposed the ranchman, with a smile; "eh, boys?"
The cow-punchers stood around grinning cheerfully as Bob spoke up:
"We're certainly obliged, Mr. Irwin. You can just bet we'll stay."
"Those seven broncs pulling all together couldn't drag us away," declared Dave, solemnly. "I feel dreadfully in need of rest."
It was growing late when they again entered the big, inviting room at the ranch-house. Two huge hanging lamps were lighted before the glow from a flaming sunset sky had entirely left the walls.