Bonnie Bell she could ride a man's saddle all right, and she had a outfit for it. When it got a little warmer in the spring we used to go in the parks every once in a while. One day we rid on out into a narrow sort of place along the lake. There was houses there--a row of them, all big, all of stone or brick; houses as big as the penitentiary in Wyoming and about as cheerful. We stopped right in front of a big brick-and-stone house, which had trees and flower beds and hedges all along; and says she: "Curly, how would you like to live in a house like that?" "I wouldn't live in the damn place if you give it to me, Bonnie Bell," says I, cheerful. She looked at me kind of funny. "That's the kind of a house the best people have in this town," says she. "For instance, that house we're looking at looks as though the best architects in town had designed it. That place, Curly, cost anywhere from a half to three-quarters of a million, I'll betcha." "Well, that's a heap more money than anybody ought to pay for a place to live in," says I. "They ought to spend it for cows." "But it fronts the lake," says she, "and it's right in with the best people." "Is that so?" says I. "Then here is where we ought to of come--some place like that; for what we're here for is to break in with the best people. Ain't that the truth, Bonnie Bell?" "Maybe," says she after a while--"bankers, I suppose, merchants, wholesale people--hides, leather, packing----" "And not cowmen?" says I. "Certainly not!" says she. "To be the best people you must deal in something that somebody else has worked on--you must handle a manufactured product of some kind. You mustn't be a producer of actual wealth." "Sho! Bonnie Bell," says I, "if you're in earnest you're talking something you learned at Old Man Smith's college. I don't know nothing about them things. Folks is folks, ain't they? A square man is a square man, no matter what's his business." "It's different here," says she. "Well, now, while we're speaking about houses," says I, us setting there on our horses all the time and plenty of people going by and looking at us--or leastways looking at her--"why don't you tell me where your house is going to be at? You never did show it to me once." "I'm not going to, Curly," says she. "That's going to be a secret. Of course dad knows where it is; but as for you--well, maybe we will get into it by Christmas." "Now, for instance," says I--and I waves my hand toward a place that was just starting alongside this big house we'd been looking at--"it like enough taken a year or so to get this here place as far along as it is." "Uh-huh!" says she. So then we turned away and rid back home. When we got back to the hotel we found Old Man Wright setting in a chair, with his legs stuck out and his hands in his pockets, looking plumb unhappy. "What's the matter, dad?" ast Bonnie Bell. "Have you lost any money or heard any bad news?"