Chip took the reins from the Old Man's hands, sprang in and drove back down the hill to the stables. The “reception committee,” as Chip sarcastically christened them, rounded up the runaway and sneaked back to the ranch by the coulee trail. With much unseemly language, they stripped the saddle and a flapping pair of overalls off poor, disgraced Banjo, and kicked him out of the corral. “That's the way Jack's schemes always pan out,” grumbled Slim. “By golly, yuh don't get me into another jackpot like that!” “You might explain why you let that” (several kinds of) “cayuse get away from you!” retorted Jack, fretfully. “If you'd been onto your job, things would have been smooth as silk.” “Wonder what the old maid thought,” broke in Weary, bent on preserving peace in the Happy Family. “I'll bet she never saw us at all!” laughed Cal. “Old Splinter gave her all she wanted to do, hanging to the rig. The way he came down that grade wasn't slow. He just missed running into Banjo on the Hog's Back by the skin of the teeth. If he had, it'd be good-by, doctor--and Chip, too. Gee, that was a close shave!” “Well,” said Happy Jack, mournfully, “if we don't all get the bounce for this, I miss my guess. It's a little the worst we've done yet.” “Except that time we tin-canned that stray steer, last winter,” amended Weary, chuckling over the remembrance as he fastened the big gate behind them. “Yes, that was another of Jack's fool schemes,” put in Slim. “Go and tin-can a four-year-old steer and let him take after the Old Man and put him on the calf shed, first pass he made. Old Man was sure hot about that--by golly, it didn't help his rheumatism none.” “He'll sure go straight in the air over this,” reiterated Happy Jack, with mournful conviction. “There's old Splinter at the bunk house--drawing our pictures, I'll bet a dollar. Hey, Chip! How you vas, already yet?” sung out Weary, whose sunny temper no calamity could sour. Chip glanced at them and went on cutting the leaves of a late magazine which he had purloined from the Dry Lake barber. Cal Emmett strode up and grabbed the limp, gray hat from his head and began using it for a football. “Here! Give that back!” commanded Chip, laughing. “DON'T make a dish rag of my new John B. Stetson, Cal. It won't be fit for the dance.” “Gee! It don't lack much of being a dish rag, now, if I'm any judge. Now! Great Scott!” He held it at arm's length and regarded it derisively. “Well, it was new two years ago,” explained Chip, making an ineffectual grab at it. Cal threw it to him and came and sat down upon his heels to peer over Chip's arm at the magazine. “How's the old maid doctor?” asked Jack Bates, leaning against the door while he rolled a cigarette. “Scared plum to death. I left the remains in the Old Man's arms.” “Was she scared, honest?” Cal left off studying the “Types of Fair Women.” “What did she say when we broke loose?” Jack drew a match sharply along a log.