"Who sent you out here?"

The stranger smiled. "I saw Mr. Acton ride in the contest. I learned
that he was foreman of the Cross-Triangle Ranch. I thought I would
rather work where he worked, if I could."

The Dean looked at Phil. Phil looked at the Dean. Together they looked
at the stranger. The two cowboys who were sitting on their horses
near-by grinned at each other.

"And what is your name, sir?" the Dean asked courteously.

For the first time the man hesitated and seemed embarrassed. He looked
uneasily about with a helpless inquiring glance, as though appealing for
some suggestion.

"Oh, never mind your name, if you have forgotten it," said the Dean
dryly.

The stranger's roaming eyes fell upon Phil's old chaps, that in every
wrinkle and scar and rip and tear gave such eloquent testimony as to the
wearer's life, and that curious, self-mocking smile touched his lips.
Then, throwing up his head and looking the Dean straight in the eye, he
said boldly, but with that note of droll humor in his voice, "My name is
Patches, sir, Honorable Patches."

The Dean's eyes twinkled, but his face was grave. Phil's face flushed;
he had not failed to identify the source of the stranger's inspiration.
But before either the Dean or Phil could speak a shout of laughter came
from Curly Elson, and the stranger had turned to face the cowboy.