"You _tenderfoot_!" he snarled, accenting the words so that they carried a world of meaning with them. "Don't you know any more than to try to get onto a broncho from the off side? Say, don't you?" He shook the lad violently. "N-n-n-o," gasped Stacy. "D-d-does it m-m-make any difference w-w-h-i-ch side you get on?" "Does it make any difference?" The cowboy jerked his own head up and down as if the words he would utter had wedged fast in his throat. "Git out of here before I say something. The boss said the first man he heard using language while you tenderfeet were with us, would get fired on the spot." Without taking the chance of waiting until Stacy had mounted the pony, Lumpy grabbed the boy and tossed him into the saddle, giving the little animal a sharp slap on the flank as he did so. At first the pony began to buck; then, evidently thinking the effort was not worth while, settled down to a rough trot which soon shook the boy up and thoroughly awakened him. The rest of the fourth guard had already gone out, Chunky meeting the returning members of the third coming in. "Better hurry up, kid," they chuckled. "The cows'll sleep themselves out of sight before you get there, if you don't get a move on." "Where are they?" asked the boy. "Keep a-going and if you're lucky you'll run plumb into them," was the jeering answer as the sleepy cowmen spurred their ponies on toward camp, muttering their disapproval of taking along a bunch of boys on a cattle drive. In a few moments they, too, had turned their ponies adrift and had thrown themselves down beside their companions, pulling their blankets well about them, for the night had grown chill. Out on the plains the fourth guard were drowsily crooning the lullaby about the bull that "came down the hillside, long time ago." It seemed as if scarcely a minute had passed since the boys turned in before they were awakened by the strident tones of the foreman. "Roll out! Roll out!" he roared, bringing the sleepy cowpunchers grumbling to their feet. Almost before the echoes of his voice had died away, a shrill voice piped up from the tail end of the chuck wagon. "Grub pi-i-i-le! Grub pi-i-i-le!" It was the Chinaman, Pong, sounding his call for breakfast, in accordance with the usage of the plains. "Grub pi-i-i-le!" he finished in a lower tone, after which his head quickly disappeared under the cover of the wagon. By the time the cowmen and Pony Riders had refreshed themselves at the spring near which the outfit had camped, a steaming hot breakfast had been spread on the ground, with a slicker for a table cloth. Three cowboys fell to with a will, gulping down their breakfast in a hurry that they might ride out and relieve the fourth guard on the herd.