“Why? _You_ ain’t riding him.” “But why not ride Sultan? He’s so gentle and quiet and——” “Letty! do I look as if I was on a still hunt for something gentle and quiet? I want something that’ll give me a fight. Something that’ll tire me out and take my mind off black, floppy pompadours and stocking-leg gloves! Jerry, you come along with me. I want a talk with you.” “Oh, if only that dreadful horse would die!” sighed Mrs. Conover. “I never have an instant’s peace while you’re riding him.” “Rot!” growled Caleb, grinning reassurance at the pathetic little figure on the sofa. “There never yet was a horse I couldn’t manage or that could harm _me_. Come along, Jerry.” He stamped upstairs to his dressing-room followed by the reluctant, still muttering Gerald. This was by no means the first time Mrs. Conover had plucked up courage to entreat her lord not to ride his favorite horse, Dunderberg, the most vicious, tricky brute in all that horse-breeding State. And never yet had the Railroader deigned to heed her request. In fact, such opposition rather pleased him than otherwise, inasmuch as it enhanced, to all listeners, his own equestrian prowess. Caleb Conover was a notoriously bad rider. Horsemanship must be learned before the age of twenty or never at all. And Conover was well past forty before he threw leg over saddle. But he loved the exercise, and took special joy in buying and mastering the most unmanageable horses he could find. How so wretched a horseman could avert bad falls or even death was a mystery to all who knew him. It was seemingly by his own sheer will power and brutal strength of mind and body that he remained triumphant over the worst horse; was never thrown nor failed to conquer his mount. It was one of the sights of Granite to see Caleb Conover careering down the main avenue of the residence district, backing some foaming, plunging hunter, whose wildest efforts could never shake that stiff, indomitable figure from its seat. With walloping elbows and jerking shoulders, the Railroader was wont to thunder his way at top speed up and down suburban byways; inciting his horse to its worst tricks, tempting it to buck, kick, wheel or rear. And when the maddened brute at length indulged in any or all of these manœuvres, a joy of battle would light the rider’s face as, with unbreakable knee-grip and a self-possession that never deserted him, he flogged the steed into subjection. In telling Letty that there was no horse he could not safely manage and control Conover had but repeated an oft-made boast—a boast whose truth he had a score of times proven. He was not a constant equestrian. He never rode for the mere pleasure of it. In ordinary moments he cared little for such recreation. But when he was angered, or perplexed, or desired to freshen jaded nerves or brain, his first order was for his newest, worst-tempered horse.