“Oh, Happy was going to rope out a sure-enough bad one for his night hoss, and out uh the goodness uh my heart, I put him wise to what he was going up against,” he explained carelessly.

“He acts like he has some thoughts uh doubting my word, so I just offered him a hundred dollars to ride him—­that blue roan, over there next that crooked post.  GET_ a reserved seat right in front of the grand stand where all the big acts take_ PLACE;” he sung out suddenly, in the regulation circus tone.  “GET-a-seat-right-in-front-where-Ha
ppy-Jack-the-WILD-Man-rides-the-BUCKING-BRONCHO—­Go on, Happy.  Don’t keep the audience waiting.  Aren’t yuh going to earn that hundred dollars?”

Happy Jack turned half a shade redder than was natural.  “Aw, gwan.  I never said I was going to do no broncho-busting ack.  But I betche yuh never seen that roan before he was unloaded in Dry Lake.”

“What’ll yuh bet I don’t know that hoss from a yearling colt?” Andy challenged, and Happy Jack walked away without replying, and cast his loop sullenly over the first horse he came to—­which was not the roan.

Chip, coming up to hear the last of it, turned and looked long at the horse in question; a mild-mannered horse, standing by a crooked corral post and flicking his ears at the flies.  “Do you know that roan?” he asked Andy, in the tone which brings truthful answer.  Andy had one good point:  he never lied except in an irresponsible mood of pure deviltry.  For instance, he never had lied seriously, to an employer.

“Sure, I know that hoss,” he answered truthfully.

“Did you ever ride him?”

“No,” Andy admitted, still truthfully.  “I never rode him but once myself, but I worked right with a Lazy 6 rep that had him in his string, down at the U up-and-down, two years ago.  I know the hoss, all right; but I did lie when I told Happy I knowed him from a colt.  I spread it on a little bit thick, there.”  He smiled engagingly down at Chip.

“And he’s a bad one, is he?” Chip queried Over his shoulder, just as he was about to walk away.

“Well,” Andy prevaricated—­still clinging to the letter, if not to the spirit of truth.  “He ain’t a hoss I’d like to see Happy Jack go up against.  I ain’t saying, though, that he can’t be rode.  I don’t say that about any hoss.”

“Is he any worse than Glory, when Glory is feeling peevish?” Weary asked, when Chip was gone and while the men still lingered.  Andy, glancing to make sure that Chip was out of hearing, threw away his cigarette and yielded to temptation.  “Glory?” he snorted with a fine contempt.  “Why, Glory’s—­a—­lamb beside that blue roan!  Why, that hoss throwed Buckskin Jimmy clean out of a corral—­Did yuh ever see Buckskin Jimmy ride?  Well, say, yuh missed a pretty sight, then; Jimmy’s a sure-enough rider.  About the only animal he ever failed to connect with for keeps, is that same cow-backed hoss yuh see over there.  Happy says he’s got a kind eye in his head—­” Andy stopped and laughed till they all laughed with him.  “By gracious, Happy ought to step up on him, once, and see how kind he is!” He laughed again until Happy, across the corral saddling the horse he had chosen, muttered profanely at the derision he knew was pointed at himself.