that he was very much
taken with her. Since Joyce Seldon was the center and circumference
about which most of her thoughts revolved, it followed that the young
man had chosen the sure way to her favor.

Moya Dwight too found that the young fisherman flitted in and out of her
mind a good deal. He had told her, with that sardonic smile, that he was
a workingman. Indeed, there had been something almost defiant in the way
he had said it, as if he would not for a moment accept their hospitality
on false pretenses. But, surely, he was worlds apart from any laborer
she had ever seen. Last evening he had been as much at his ease as Lord
Farquhar himself. A little uncertainty about the use of the spoons and
forks had not disturbed him at all. In spite of the soft vocal elisions
of the West, his speech had a dignity that suggested breeding. It was
quite likely he was not a gentleman, according to the code in which she
had been brought up, but it was equally sure there burned in him that
dynamic spark of self-respect which is at the base of all good manners.

The little town of Gunnison rioted with life. Born and brought up as she
had been in the iron caste of modern super-civilization, Moya found the
barbaric color of the occasion very appealing. As she looked down on the
arena from the box her party occupied, the heart of the girl throbbed
with the pure joy of it all. She loved this West, with its picturesque
chap-clad brown-faced riders. They were a hard-bitten lot, burned to a
brick red by the untempered sun of the Rockies. Cheerful sons of mirth
they were, carrying their years with a boyish exuberance that was
delightful.

Most of the competitors for the bucking broncho championship had been
eliminated before the arrival of the party from the Lodge. Among the
three who had reached the finals was their guest of the previous
evening.

"Jack Kilmeny will ride Teddy Roosevelt," blared the megaphone man.

The English officer turned to Farquhar. "Didn't quite catch the name.
Sounded like my own."

"That's what I thought," contributed his sister. A moment later, she
added: "Why, it's Mr. Crumbs."

That young man sauntered forward lazily, dragging his saddle by its
horn. He saddled the trembling animal warily, then swung lightly to the
seat. The broncho stood for an instant motionless, then humped itself
from the earth, an incarnate demon of action. As a pitcher, a weaver, a
sunfisher, this roan had no equal. Its ill-shaped