"
"I hope so," returned Stanford. "Helen has been complaining that there
are no cowboys to be seen. I pointed out Phil Acton, but he didn't seem
to fill the bill; she doesn't believe that he is a cowboy at all."
The Dean chuckled. "He's never been anything else. They don't make 'em
any better anywhere." Then he added soberly, "Phil's not ridin' in the
contest this year, though."
"What's the matter?"
"I don't know. He's got some sort of a fool notion in his head that he
don't want to make an exhibition of himself--that's what he said. I've
got another man on the ranch now," he added, as though to change the
subject, "that'll be mighty near as good as Phil in another year. His
name is Patches. He's a good one, all right."
Kitty, who, had been looking away down the street while the Dean was
talking, put her hand on Helen's arm. "Look down there, Helen. I believe
that is Patches now--that man sitting on his horse at the cross street,
at the foot of the hill, just outside the ropes."
Helen was looking through the field glasses. "I see him," she cried.
"Now, that's more like it. He looks like what I expected to see.
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