"Well, what's the matter with that divin' story of mine?" demanded Brigham orgulously. "You're behind the times, Bar Seven. While you was on yore way this gentleman come into camp, and he's seen that done himself. What do you know about it, anyhow--spent all yore life punchin' cows and eatin' sand--what do you know about divin', anyhow?" "Well, they's one thing I do know," retorted Bar Seven, "and that's hawses. I been with hawses all my life, and you cain't tell me about no hawse divin'--stands to reason he'd hit the bottom and break his neck, anyway!" "Perhaps I would better explain," broke in Bowles politely. "When the horse leaves the platform he slides down an inclined chute, below which is hung a heavily padded board. As the horse slips off he naturally kicks and struggles, and his feet, flying out behind, strike the padded board so that, while he leaps off headforemost, he rights himself in the air and falls into the pool feet first. Of course, forty-five feet is quite a distance, but he probably never goes to the bottom at all." "Well, that's all right," admitted Bar Seven. "I don't know about that--but tell me this, stranger: How does the man git that hawse to climb up there and take the jump? Tell me that, and I'll believe anything!" "Why, certainly," said Bowles. "At the time of which I speak, a young girl rode on his back when he made the plunge--just to make it more exciting, you know--but I watched the man quite closely, and really it was very interesting. First the girl went up the long incline, which had a railing and was provided with cleats, of course. Then the trainer brought Selim out and gave him a handful of sugar from his pocket, rubbing his head and talking to him while he was begging for more, until he had him up to the chute. There he stripped the halter off and spoke to him, and the horse started up by himself, he was so eager for the reward. At the top the girl mounted him and turned him down the diving-chute; and, don't you know, the first thing he did when he got to land was to trot back and get his sugar!" "Oh, sugar!" cried Bar Seven, in disgust; but somehow the circumstantiality of the narrative seemed to carry conviction with the others, and he found himself alone. "What breed of hawse was that?" inquired Uncle Joe, after a pause. "A pure-blooded Arabian," answered Bowles; "supposed to be the most intelligent horses in the world. The Arabians, you know, keep their horses about their tents and raise them as if they were children, teaching them to understand the human voice and to answer like a dog."