ot of yippin' around, and git up
more excitement than they've had in that sleepy ole burg since the
women swarmed down on Gatty's quart shop en wrecked hit."

"Well, you and Mr. Potter and Mr. Flinthead just keep out of it," said
Adine emphatically. "You would ruin everything."

"No just let 'em come, I've been kidded by experts and their stuff
might prove an added feature. But Adine, you had better let me hand
you the cash...."

"No, that would be a departure from what we are trying to do. The
object of the affair is publicity, not cash. And besides, the colt
isn't worth a dime to me--or anyone else but you. He's too little for
anyone to ride, and he ought to be trained and made to be useful. As
it is, he's just one in the drove and would remain so, until he died.

"But you can take him, train him, and make a beautiful show-horse out
of him. Why, I can see you riding, parading, and having him doing
stunts such as are rarely seen in a circus.

"Now I want you to ride him home today. The trade is made. You have
the horse and are obligated to give an entertainment for the Nazarenes
in Adot. I think we can arrange it for next Saturday night week. The
little weekly newspaper, the _Adot Avalanche_, comes out Thursday. I
will run a display ad that a famous Midget and circus performer will
give a lecture at the warehouse Saturday night under the auspices of
the Nazarenes. The little paper goes all over the district and the
town won't hold the people. It will be Adot's premier event.

"So you come over here Saturday morning, Davy," continued Adine, "we
will drive over to Adot in the afternoon in my roadster. We'll lay the
top back and drive over the town so the public will know that you are
there in person! It will be Adot's biggest day."

Landy had been ready to get back to the stables for some time. He was
standing, twirling his ancient headpiece, awaiting the word to start.
In all his years of dealing in horseflesh, this trade interested him
deeply. He wanted his little friend to have that horse.

As the three walked down the path to the stables, Adine was insistent
that Davy should ride the colt home. "He's not a range horse," she
explained, "not a westerner, as they sometimes describe horses that
are out of a drove. This colt doesn't need to be broken. He was sired
by our Allan-a-Dale, a registered saddle horse; his mother is Janie,
that I used to ride barebacked and without a bridle. He was her last
colt and will