too much like Darling Brother--"

At this point, Happy Jack ducked precipitately and a flapping,
four-buckled overshoe, a relic of the winter gone, hurtled past his
head and landed with considerable force upon the unsuspecting stomach
of Cal, stretched luxuriously upon his bunk. Cal doubled like a
threatened caterpillar and groaned, and Weary, feeling that justice had
not been defeated even though he had aimed at another culprit, grinned
complacently.

"What horse are you going to take?" asked Chip, to turn the subject.

"Glory. I'm thinking of putting him up against Bert Rogers' Flopper.
Bert's getting altogether too nifty over that cayuse of his. He needs
to be walked away from, once; Glory's the little horse that can learn
'em things about running, if--"

"Yeah--_if_!" This from Cal, who had recovered speech. "Have yuh got
a written guarantee from Glory, that he'll run?"

"Aw," croaked Happy Jack, "if he runs at all, it'll likely be
backwards--if it ain't a dancing-bear stunt on his hind feet. You can
gamble it'll be what yuh don't expect and ain't got any money on; that
there's Glory, from the ground up."

"Oh, I don't know," Weary drawled placidly. "I'm not setting him
before the public as a twin to Mary's little lamb, but I'm willing to
risk him. He's a good little horse--when he feels that way--and he can
run. And darn him, he's _got_ to run!"