"Where will I find Mr. Sparling?"

"In the doghouse."

"Where's that?"

"Out back of the ticket wagon. It's a little A tent, and we call
it the boss's doghouse, because it's only big enough to hold a
couple of St. Bernards."

"Oh! What does he want of me?"

"Ask him," grinned the attendant, who, it developed, was an usher
in the reserved-seat section. "He don't tell us fellows his
business. Say, that was a great stunt you did with Emperor."

"Oh, I don't know."

"I do. There's the doghouse over there. See it?"

"Yes, thank you."

The attendant leaving him, Phil walked on alone to Mr. Sparling's
private office, for such was the use to which he put the little
tent that the usher had called the "doghouse."

"I wonder what he can want of me?" mused Phil. "Probably he
wants to thank me for stopping that pony. I hope he doesn't. I
don't like to be thanked. And it wasn't much of anything that I