r two along, and never make a
ripple on Broadway."

"Does that look reasonable to you, Clay?" argued Red. "We're not
talkin' about buckin' the tiger or buyin' diamonds for no actresses.
We're figurin' on a guy goin' out with some friends to eat and take a
few drinks and have a good time. How could he spend fifty dollars--let
alone a hundred--if he let the skirts and the wheel alone and didn't
tamper with no straight flushes?"

"I'm tellin' you what I read. Take it or leave it," said Clay amiably.

"Well, I read there's a street there twelve miles long. If a fellow
started at one end of that street with a thirst he'd sure be salivated
before he reached the other end of it," Stace said with a grin.

"Wonder if a fellow could get a job there. They wouldn't have no use
for a puncher, I reckon," Slim drawled.

"Betcha Clay could get a job all right," answered Johnnie Green
promptly. "He'd be top hand anywhere, Clay would."

Johnnie was the lost dog of the B-in-a-Box ranch. It was his nature to
follow somebody and lick his hand whenever it was permitted. The
somebody he followed was Clay Lindsay. Johnnie was his slave, the echo
of his opinions, the booster of his merits. He asked no greater
happiness than to trail in the wake of his friend and get a kind word
occasionally.

The Runt had chosen as his Admirable Crichton a most engaging youth.
It never had been hard for any girl to look at Clay Lindsay. His
sun-tanned, good looks, the warmth of his gay smile, the poise and the
easy stride of him, made Lindsay a marked man even in a country where
men of splendid physique were no exception.

"I'd take a li'l' bet that New York ain't lookin' for no champeen
ropers or bronco-busters," said Stace. "Now if Clay was a cabby-ret
dancer or a Wall Street wolf--"

"There's no street in the world twelve miles long where Clay couldn't
run down and hogtie a job if he wanted to," insisted Johnnie loyally.
"Ain't that right, Clay?"

Clay was not listening. His eyes were watching the leap of the fire
glow. The talk of New York had carried him back to a night on the
round-up three years before. He was thinking about a slim girl
standing on a sand spit with a wild steer rushing toward her, of her
warm, slender body lying in his arms for five immortal seconds, of her
dark, shy eyes shining out of the dusk at him like live coals. He
remembered--and it hurt him to recall it--how his wounded pride had
lashed out in resent