never taken to outdoor sports, except as an onlooker from the
shade of a grand stand or piazza.

While he was debating the wisdom of writing a detailed
description of yesterday's tragedy while it was still fresh in
his mind and stowing it away for future "color," Park Holloway
rode into the yard and on to the stables. He nodded at Thurston
and grinned without apparent cause, as the cook had done.
Thurston followed him to the corral and watched him pull the
saddle off his horse, and throw it carelessly to one side. It
looked cumbersome, that saddle; quite unlike the ones he had
inspected in the New York shops. He grasped the horn, lifted
upon it and said, "Jove!"

"Heavy, ain't it?" Park laughed, and slipped the bridle down
over the ears of his horse and dismissed him with a slap on the
rump. "Don't yuh like the looks of it?" he added indulgently.

Thurston, engaged in wondering what all those little strings
were for, felt the indulgence and straightened. "How should I
know?" he retorted. "Anyone can see that my ignorance is
absolute. I expect you to laugh at me, Mr. Holloway."

"Call me Park," said he of the tawny hair, and leaned against
the fence looking extremely boyish and utterly incapable of
walking calmly down upon a barking revolver and shooting as he
went. "You're bound to learn all about saddles and what they're
made for," he went on. "So long as yuh don't get swell-headed
the first time yuh stick on a horse that side-steps a little, or
back down from a few hard knocks, you'll be all right."