B. M. Bower

“ The color surged to his face, and he leaned from the window, his thin, white hand outstretched caressingly.
“I’d tell a man!” he said, and choked a little over it. “Silver, old boy!”
Silver, nickering softly, limped forward and nestled his nose in the palm of his master. ”

“ Silver stopped at the corner, swung his head and looked back at Chip, beckoning, coaxing, swearing under his breath. His eyes sought for sign of his goddess, who had disappeared most mysteriously. Throwing up his head, he sent a protest shrilling through the air, and looked no more at Chip.
“I’m coming, now be still. Oh, don’t you dare paw with your lame leg! Why didn’t you stay with your master?”
“He’s no use for his master, any more,” said Chip, with a hurt laugh. “A woman always does play the—mischief, somehow. I wonder why? They look innocent enough.” ”

“ I wonder if he thinks it takes spurs to ride a buckboard? Do they think, back East, that spurs grow on a man’s heels out here and won’t come off? Do they think we sleep in ’em, I wonder?” He drew a match along the arm of the chair where the varnish was worn off. “They think all a cow-puncher has to do is eat and sleep and ride fat horses. I’d like to tell some of them a few things that they don’t——”
“I’ve brought you a caller, Chip. Aren’t you glad to see him?” It was the Little Doctor at the window, and the laugh he loved was in her voice and in her eyes, that it hurt him to meet, lately. ”