But the fact that his cousin Ned was gradually crowding him to the wall, and usurping the place that George himself ought to have held in the house, was not the only thing that troubled the young rancheman. That was bad enough, but it was accompanied by something worse. If he was snubbed and kept in the background by his relatives while at home, he was treated but little, if any, better by the people, both young and old, who lived in the settlement, and that was what hurt him. He was acquainted with almost every farmer and rancheman in the county, and, until lately, he had always been very popular among them; but when Uncle John and his son arrived his troubles began. The neighbors would have nothing whatever to do with the newcomers. They would not even notice them when they met them on the highway, and it was not long before they began to extend the same treatment to George himself. The young cattle-herder could not imagine what it was that caused this change, until one day, while he was riding to Palos, to purchase some supplies for himself and his hired man, he met one of his young friends, who, instead of stopping to talk with him, as he usually did, simply bowed and put spurs to his horse, as if he were in a hurry to pass by him; but George reined his own nag across the trail and stopped him. “Now, Hank Short,” said he, “I want to know what you mean by such work as this? What’s the reason that you and the other fellows never come to see me any more, and that you take pains to pass me in this fashion? Do you take me for a horse-thief?” This, according to a Texas boy’s way of thinking, was the worst term of reproach that could be applied to anybody. In Nantucket, if they want to convey the impression that a man is utterly detestable, they say he is mean enough to “mix oil.” In Massachusetts, he will “rob a hen-roost,” and in Texas, he will “steal horses.” “Everybody in the settlement seems to have gone back on me since my father died,” said George, bitterly, “and I don’t know what to think of it. Now, Hank, you can’t go by here until you tell me what I have done to make all the folks angry at me. As soon as I know what it is, I will try to make amends for it.” “You haven’t done anything,” was Hank’s reply. “We don’t take _you_ for a horse-thief!” “Then why do you——Eh? You don’t take _me_ for a horse-thief! What do you mean by that?” “Well, I—you know——” faltered Hank, “those northern relations of yours sling on a good many frills, and folks who wear store clothes and boiled shirts are not wanted in this country. We’re afraid of them.” “Whew!” whistled George.