only society parts, Mr. Armytage. All very interesting, and I've no
doubt we can place you very soon; but just at present we're needing a
lead for a Western, a man who can look the part and ride."

Thereupon he handed these Buck Benson stills to the man, whose face
would instantly relax into an expression of pleased surprise.

"The very thing," he would say. And among those stills, certainly,
should be one of Clifford Armytage actually on the back of his horse.
He'd chance it.

"All right; just a minute."

He clutched the bridle reins of Dexter under his drooping chin, and
overcoming a feeble resistance dragged him alongside the watering
trough. Dexter at first thought he was wished to drink, but a kick took
that nonsense out of him. With extreme care Merton stood upon the
edge of the trough and thrust a leg blindly over the saddle. With
some determined clambering he was at last seated. His feet were in the
stirrups. There was a strange light in his eyes. There was a strange
light in Dexter's eyes. To each of them the experience was not only
without precedent but rather unpleasant.

"Ride him out in the middle here, away from that well," directed the
camera man.

"You--you better lead him out," suggested the rider. "I can feel him
tremble already. He--he might break down under me."

Metta Judson, from the back porch, here came into the piece with lines
that the author had assuredly not written for her.

"Giddap, there, you Dexter Gashwiler," called Metta loudly and with the
best intentions.

"You keep still," commanded the rider severely, not turning his head.
What a long way it seemed to the ground! He had never dreamed that
horses were so lofty. "Better lead him," he repeated to his camera man.

Lowell Hardy grasped the bridle reins, and after many vain efforts
persuaded Dexter to stumble away from the well. His rider grasped the
horn of his saddle.

"Look out, don't let him buck," he called.

But Dexter had again become motionless, except for a recurrent trembling
under this monstrous infliction.

"Now, there," began the artist. "Hold that. You're looking off over the
Western hills. Atta boy! Wait till I get a side view."

"Move your camera," said the rider. "Seems to me he doesn't want to turn
around."

But again the artist turned Dexter half around. That wasn't so bad.
Merton began to feel the thrill of it. He even lounged in the saddle
presently, one leg over the pommel, and seemed about to rol