ver waser_ alongside
that."

He slapped Phil's shoulder. "Good old Phil!"

Surly as an old dog, Brenchfield loosened the reins from the hitching
post.

"I'll give you five thousand dollars for that word," he said, turning
suddenly to Phil.

"You're mighty free with your money to-day. You must have a lien on
somebody's fortune."

"Five thousand dollars," repeated the Mayor.

"Not on your life!" answered Phil. "It was given me strictly on the
understanding that it was not to be sold."

"Well then,--I'll give you my 'word' in exchange for yours."

"Your 'word,'--yours? No, Mister Mayor, I haven't any desire to know
your 'word.' Keep it,--it fits you. The two words are just about the
difference between you and me,--and, God knows, I'm no saint."

Brenchfield laughed in his easy, devil-may-care way. He jumped on to
the back of his horse without touching her with his hands.

"Aren't you going to let me shoe her?" asked Phil in assumed
disappointment.

For answer, the Mayor touched the horse's side with his spur, trotted
round the end of the building and away.

"Phil, old man, where did you learn to subdue horses?"

"I got the word from an old horsey-man whom I befriended once."

"Did you ever use it before?"

"No! I just rethought of it a moment or two before I tried it out."

"Lordy! I shouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own
eyes. You know, Beelzebub is positively the worst mare in the Valley.
Sol Hanson will throw a fit of delight when he hears about this.

"I've heard some queer things about horses, Phil. I once knew an old
horse dealer in the East of Scotland. He owned a famous Clydesdale
stud stallion. He used to travel with it all over the country. Old
Sommerville, they called the man, was a terrible booze artist. He was
drunk day and night. But never so drunk that he couldn't look after
himself and his stallion. You know, just always half-full of whisky.
Well,--there wasn't a paddock that could hold that stallion. It had
killed several men and had created tremendous havoc time and again in
stables. If it had not been for its qualities as a perfect specimen of
a horse, the Government would have ordered its destruction. A special
friend of old Sommerville's died, and, on the day of the funeral,
Sommerville swore he wouldn't taste liquor for twenty-four hours. He
didn't. That night he was taking the stallion from one village to
another. He failed to turn up at the village he intend