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MY PRAIRIE FLOWER
111
SEE. HE IS FALLING
breakfast. Get into these togs. They are your — er — working clothes, you know."
Jenkins regarded with marked disfavor the rough clothing, the chaps and spurs that told of work on horseback; but he knew better than to disobey, and rose with a groan as Jones entered to see if his guest lacked for anything.
With Flora not present, Bob was able to embroider the tale of the supposed Fords' misbehavior, and to dilate upon the father's eagerness that the son would work hard.
"He's right," assented Jones heartily. "I'll see to it that your master has plenty of exercise. You won't know, him in three months. We'll build out that flat chest and put some flesh on those thin arms. You leave him to me."
Jenkins shivered at the suggestion contained in the last words, but there was no help for it; and, looking very little like a cowboy, he was led to breakfast and then to the sacrifice. The
little knot of cowboys were waiting for him in front of the ranch house, and Bob could scarcely restrain his laughter when he assisted his frightened valet into the saddle. Jones had picked out a horse safe enough but scarcely to be called gentle and Jenkins bounced about in the saddle disgracefully as Avith a whoop the cowboys surrounded him and raced off.
Bob lingered for a moment talking to Jones, as Flora emerged from the house in her riding habit, and a man brought up her pony. She bowed coldly in response to Bob's defferential salute, and for a moment he felt hurt, until he could realize that to her he was only a servant.
She was scarcely in the saddle when her mount shied, and Bob, alert to her slightest movement, sprang to the horse's head. This time a smile was his reward as she cantered off.
He looked after her longingly, and Jones, who found the imitation valet more to his liking than the real valet.