"I ’ll remember. Cock Murray: it fits you like a glove," and Murray mounted to her ripple of laughter. "We shall be out there to-morrow. Aunt is with me," she called to him, while the pinto worked off a little of its superfluous deviltry, before getting down to its work. She watched him admiringly, Cock sitting firm and waiting, until presently the pony straightened out and proceeded to prove his owner’s boast. "Tip-top, Ralph," praised Margaret; "but you always could ride." She turned and faced the dour Sandy. "See here! Do you _ever_ intend to get out that rig?" "Weel—gin ye ’re a relative o’ Buck Peters, I jalouse ye ’ll gang yer ain gait, onyway," and he went grumbling through the hall to do her bidding. A roaring volley of curses, instantly checked and rolling forth a second time with all the sulphur retained to add rancor to the percolator, drew Margaret curiously to overlook the cause. Seeing, she thought she understood Sandy’s reluctance to let his team to her: a pair of perfectly matched bays, snipped with white in a manner that gave to their antics an air of rollicking mischief, they were lacking the angularity of outline Margaret already had come to expect in Western ponies, and their wild plunging seemed more the result of overflowing vitality than inherent vice. Drawn by the uproar, Slick appeared beside her. "No team for a lady to drive," he declared, shaking his head. "Ridiculous!" asserted Margaret. "Go help them." A devitalized imprecation from Sandy hastened his steps. Margaret was in doubt which amused her most: the trickiness of the ponies or Sandy’s heroic endeavor to swear without swearing. She understood him far better than either of the others, who worked silently and with well directed efforts. With Slick’s invaluable assistance their object was soon accomplished, the team being hitched to a new buckboard that was the pride of Sandy’s heart. "’T is a puir thing," he protested, eying it sourly. "I hae naething better." "Why, it is perfect," declared Margaret, "but I shall want a whip." "Ye ’ll want nae whup," denied Sandy, shaking his head ominously. The Cyclone puncher at the head of the nigh horse called to her: "Take ’em out o’ th’ corral, miss? They ’ll go like antelopes when they start." Margaret laughed in gay excitement. "No, no! please don’t," she entreated, drawing on her gloves. "I could drive that pair through the eye of a needle." Sandy glanced from her to the team and back again. "Havers! I ’ll gie ye ma ain whup," he promised. He was back in half a minute with a lash whip whose holly stock never grew in America. "What a beauty!’" exclaimed Margaret. She ran down the steps, gathered up the lines, and sprang into the buckboard, bracing herself for the inevitable jerk. "Ready," she warned. "Let go."