Me and Magpie stands there sort of weak-like and watches him search his pockets. He ain’t said a word yet. The more pockets he searches the less he seems to find. He grunts and reaches for his hip pocket, the same of which seems to bend his legs backwards until his heels catch in that bronc’s flanks. _Zowie!_ That rat-tailed bronc resents such familiarity, with the result that said apparition lands setting down in our front yard while the insulted bronc wends its way home. I plumb forgot to mention that this person carried a little valise on the saddle-horn. Yes, it came off with him. He sets there on the chip-pile blinking like a old owl, and then he produces an envelope from his hip pocket. Then he adjusts his specs and peers up at us. “I beg your pardon,” says he. “You have it,” says Magpie. “You won’t catch that bronc this side of Piperock,” says I. “He’s still throwing sand.” “Ah! Oh, the--er--equine? Ah! Unavoidable, I assure you.” “Setting as you were,” admits Magpie. “Good scheme to always watch a bronc’s ears, old-timer.” “Pleasant pastime, I have no doubt,” he agrees. “Oh, quite interesting. May I ask if either of you gentlemen is Mr. Simpson?” “Little high and to the right,” says Magpie. “I’m Simpkins.” “Ah, yes! Delighted, I assure you. My mistake.” He peers at the letter. “Very good indeed. Simpkins it is. I beg your pardon.” “You’re going to get splinters in you if you don’t get up,” states Magpie. “Thank you very, very much,” says he, handing the letter to Magpie. “This is my--er--introductions, Mr. Simpson.” “S-i-m-p-k-i-n-s,” spells Magpie. “Ah, yes. Very simple.” “Yes,” says I. “Very.” Magpie opens the letter, and I reads it over his shoulder. My Dear Simpkins: The bearer, Professor Ajax Ulysses Green, B.A., F.H.S., K.P., I.O.O.F., B.P.O.E., etc., etc., is desirous of testing out some pet theory, and I am taking the liberty of sending him to you, knowing that you and Ike will see that he gets what is coming to him. Do with him as you will--and I know you will. Professor Pettingill joins me in sending you our best regards and hopes some day to see you again. Remember us to Dirty Shirt Jones, and all the rest of the Pelicans we met in the county of Yellow Rock. Very sincerely yours, F. H. Middleton. P. S.--As Dirty Shirt says, “For ----’s sake, did you ever see the like?” He really is considered a brilliant man, and devoted to his work. Do as you see fit--but spare him, as Pettingill and myself will not rest well until he returns to Boston and tells of his experiences. “Professor Middleton is one of my dear, dear friends,” explains this alphabetical person sweet-like. “He was primarily responsible for my coming. You may thank him.” “My!” gasps Magpie. “I may, may I? Well, well! Come in, Ajax.”