“But we’re not looking for the regular thing. And why not expect? Don’t you get what you go after? You, for instance—I should think you’d expect the limit that kind Fate could give. If I looked like you——” There was a sincerity of admiration in Pape’s lanky shrug and lapsing sigh such as “’Donis” Moore evidently wasn’t fortified to resist. He turned his dark eyes and fine-cut profile to a more detailed study of his by-proxy charge. Pape pursued the advantage. “Sound looking critter you’re forking, officer. What you call him?” “Hylan is his name—Traffic ‘B.’” “That’s a new horse alias to me. Dot here does a polka when persuaded right. If Highland, now, does a fling, we might join them in a ‘brother’ act and put them on the stage.” “You’ll be trespassing the dignity of our sacred mayor, as well as the people’s park, if you ain’t careful,” warned ’Donis Moore. “H-y-l-a-n is what I said was his name and he don’t own up to flings like you mean any more than our chief executive.” The Westerner looked interested. “Named your nag after your boss, eh? Not an untactful idea at all. Hope hoss Hylan explains to Polkadot what fine company he’s in. First real acquaintance my poor brute’s met up with since I rode him out of the home corral and into a baggage car which I couldn’t hocus-pocus him into thinking was the latest in stables. I reckon it was too portable. He’ll be glad to know that he is starting at the top in equine circles—with His Honor the Mayor’s namesake.” “You talk kind of discouraged, bo. Just what’s gone wrong?” “Nothing’s gone wrong. You see, nothing’s started.” “Then why don’t you start something?” Pape’s attention looked much more arrested than his person. “Start something?” “Sure. Something, say, along the partic’aler line of your ambitions.” “The ambitions that have kept me on the move over the four States of my past range wouldn’t lead me into any nice place in this burg of rules and regulations, I fear. Even out in God’s country they had to make allowance for a lot I did. Here, seems like there’s an Indian sign hung on me. Not a soul knows or cares who or what I am.” Evidently interested, the police rider checked his mount’s manger-bound trot to a walk, for they were nearing their division of ways. “Would you be satisfied, now, with folks knowing who and what you really are?” he asked impressively, throwing his weight on the right stirrup, as he leaned toward his charge. “Who and what do you want to be?” “Who doesn’t matter so much. _What_ I want to be is gay—to get as much out of playing as I do out of working when I’m home.”