When A Man's A Man. Harold Bell Wright

to find some other way to do it."

      "And do you mind telling me what that job is?" asked Phil curiously.

      Patches laughed as though at himself. "I don't know that I can, exactly," he said. "I think, perhaps, it's just to ride that big bay horse out there."

      Phil laughed aloud—a hearty laugh of good-fellowship. "You'll do that all right."

      "Do you think so, really," asked Patches, eagerly.

      "Sure; I know it."

      "I wish I could be sure," returned the strange man doubtfully—and the cowboy, wondering, saw that wistful look in his eyes.

      "That big devil is a man's horse, all right," mused Phil.

      "Why, of course—and that's just it—don't you see?" cried the other impulsively. Then, as if he regretted his words, he asked quickly, "Do you name your horses?"

      "Sure," answered the cowboy; "we generally find something to call them."

      "And have you named the big bay yet?"

      Phil laughed. "I named him yesterday, when he broke away as we were bringing the bunch in, and I had to rope him to get him back."

      "And what did you name him?"

      "Stranger."

      "Stranger! And why Stranger?"

      "Oh, I don't know. Just one of my fool notions," returned Phil. "Good-night!"