If Dr. Cecil Granthum--damn him!--had been kicked into the world and made to fight fate with tender, childish little fists but lately outgrown their baby dimples, as had been HIS lot, would he have amounted to anything, either? Maybe Dr. Cecil would have grown up just common and ignorant and fit for nothing better than to furnish amusement to girl doctors with dimples and big, gray eyes and a way of laughing. He'd like to show that little woman that she didn't know all about him yet. It wasn't too late--he was only twenty-four--he would study, and work, and climb to where she must look up, not down, to him--if she cared enough to look at all. It wasn't too late. He would quit gambling and save his money, and by next winter he'd have enough to go somewhere and learn to make pictures that amounted to something. He'd show her! After reiterating this resolve in several emphatic forms, Chip's spirits grew perceptibly lighter--so much so that he rolled a fresh cigarette and finished the drawing in his hands, which demonstrated the manner in which a particularly snaky broncho had taken a fall out of Jack Bates in the corral that morning. Next day, early in the afternoon, the round-up climbed the grade and started on its long trip over the range, and, after they had gone, the ranch seemed very quiet and very lonely to the Little Doctor, who revenged herself by snubbing Dunk so unmercifully that he announced his intention of taking the next train for Butte, where he lived in the luxury of rich bachelorhood. As the Little Doctor showed no symptoms of repenting, he rode sullenly away to Dry Lake, and she employed the rest of the afternoon writing a full and decidedly prejudiced account to Dr. Cecil of her quarrel with Chip, whom, she said, she quite hated. CHAPTER X. -- What Whizzer Did. “I guess Happy lost some of his horses, las' night,” said Slim at the breakfast table next morning. Slim had been kept at the ranch to look after the fences and the ditches, and was doing full justice to the expert cookery of the Countess. “What makes yuh think that?” The Old Man poised a bit of tender, broiled steak upon the end of his fork. “They's a bunch hangin' around the upper fence, an' Whizzer's among 'em. I'd know that long-legged snake ten miles away.” The Little Doctor looked up quickly. She had never before heard of a “long-legged snake”--but then, she had not yet made the acquaintance of Whizzer. “Well, maybe you better run 'em into the corral and hold 'em till Shorty sends some one after 'em,” suggested the Old Man. “I never c'd run 'em in alone, not with Whizzer in the bunch,” objected Slim. “He's the orneriest cayuse in Chouteau County.” “Whizzer'll make a rattlin' good saddle horse some day, when he's broke gentle,” argued the Old Man. “Huh! I don't envy Chip the job uh breakin' him, though,” grunted Slim, as he went out of the door.