" This man wore chaps that were old and
patched from hard service; his shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, was the
color of the corral dirt, and a generous tear revealed one muscular
shoulder; his hat was greasy and battered; his face grimed and streaked
with dust and sweat, but his sunny, boyish smile would have identified
Phil in any garb.
When the rider was ready to mount, and Bob went to open the gate, the
stranger climbed down and drew a little aside. And when Phil, passing
where he stood, looked laughingly down at him from the back of the
bucking, plunging horse, he made as if to applaud, but checked himself
and went quickly to the top of the knoll to watch the riders until they
disappeared over the ridge.
"Howdy! Fine weather we're havin'." It was the Dean's hearty voice. He
had gone forward courteously to greet the stranger while the latter was
watching the riders.
The man turned impulsively, his face lighted with enthusiasm. "By Jove!"
he exclaimed, "but that man can ride!"
"Yes, Phil does pretty well," returned the Dean indifferently. "Won the
championship at Prescott the other day." Then, more heartily: "He's a
mighty good boy, too--take him any way you like.
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