Dig stooped to untangle the rope, turning rearward to the captured calf. As though he had been waiting for the chance, the calf blatted and charged. The impact of his forehead against the seat of Dig’s pants was tremendous. “Waugh! Take him off! Help!” roared Dig, after performing a complete somersault. Chet absolutely could not help him. The maverick leaped about his prostrate captor, stiff-legged. The rope became wound around Dig’s ankle and then, when he tried to get to his feet, he could not do so. “Stop your laughing!” he called to his chum, “and come to help a fellow. He’s going to bat me again!” “What do you want—a gun?” sputtered Chet. “That calf is just as dangerous as a tiger.” But he helped his chum out of his predicament, though continuing to make remarks regarding the maverick and its troubled owner. “So you call this a pet, do you? I’d just as soon pet a Kansas cyclone. Whoa, boy! Easy! My goodness, Dig! he pulls like a bull elk. There’s something wrong with this maverick. He’s crossed with a traction engine, I know.” “Oh, you behave!” complained Digby. “Why pick upon the innocent little thing? I believe you’ve been tantalizing him when my back was turned. That’s why he acts in such an ornery fashion.” They got on their horses at length, and Dig attempted to lead his prize. Instantly the maverick set all four hoofs in the soft prairie and braced himself against the line. But Dig had his line fastened to the fork of the saddle and the yearling could not pull Poke over. The mustang snorted and dragged the maverick over the torn sod. The latter animal could not blat, for its wind was shut off. “Hi!” cried Chet. “You’ll stretch its neck until it will look like a giraffe. Then you’ll never sell it at Grub Stake for a pet or for anything else.” “Get better money for it,” declared Dig grimly. “It would sell for a freak in a circus. And, by Jo! it’s got to come.” Chet watched the tug of war for some minutes further before asking, seriously: “You haven’t called it anything yet, have you, Dig?” “Called it anything?” protested his chum. “I’ve called it everything I dared aloud, and a whole lot of names that don’t sound well to myself!” “Oh, no—I mean a real name,” said Chet, chuckling. “You haven’t named it yet?” “Haven’t had time,” returned Dig innocently enough. “I been too busy trying to make the darned thing behave.” “Well, I’d like to suggest a name for it,” said Chet. “Yes?” responded Dig, yanking again on the calf’s line. “Call it Stone Fence. You can move it just as easily.” “Waugh!” shouted Dig, as the calf hung back again and the rope became taut, burning the boy’s hand between rope and saddle. “Now you’ve said something, boy! Stone Fence let him be.” Poke was dancing. He was no cow-pony and he objected to the dragging of the waif. “We’ll never get anywhere,” said Chet impatiently. “Do something to that calf, Dig, please!”