A smile illumined his pleasant features as he remembered that Mr. Bobo, like himself, was sitting upon the anxious seat.  That same afternoon he had tried, in vain, to extract from Nal some information about the filly’s speed.  The old man’s weakness, if he had one, was betting heavily upon a certainty.

“By Jimminy,” mused Mr. Roberts, patting affectionately the satin neck of Bijou, “it would be a nice howdy-do to win a thousand off the old son of a gun!  Gosh, Mandy! how ye startled me.”

Amanda, out of breath and scarlet of face, slipped quietly into the loose box and sat down in the straw.

“Hush,” she said, panting, “grandfather would take a quirt to me if he knew I was here, but, Nal dear, I jest had to come.  I’ve been talkin’ with the old man, an’ he won’t let me leave him, but I’ll be true to you, Nal, true as steel, an’ you’ll be true to me, won’t you?  Grandfather won’t last long, he’s——­”

“Tough,” said Mr. Roberts, “tough as abalone, tough as the hondo of my lariat.  I suspicioned he’d peter out when Pap Spooner died, but he fooled us the worst kind.  No, Mandy, the old gentleman ain’t a-goin’, as he says, till he gits ready.  He told me that to-day, an’ he ain’t a liar.  He’s close as a clam, is Mr. Bobo, but he ain’t no liar.  As for bein’ true to you, Mandy—­why—­dern it—­my heart’s jest froze to yours, it don’t belong to Nal Roberts no longer.”

The girl blushed with pleasure and rose to her feet.

“You won’t quarrel, Nal,” she said anxiously, “you an’ grandfather.  He gets awful hot at times, but your head is level.  He’s comin’ down to the track to-morrow morning at five to work out Comet, an’ you might have words about me.”

“To work out Comet?” said Nal, pricking up his ears.

“Mercy!—­” cried Amanda, “I’ve given it away, an’ it’s a deathly secret.”

“It’s safe enough with me,” replied the young man carelessly.  None the less his eyes brightened and he smiled beneath his blonde mustache.  “An’, Mandy, don’t worry, I wouldn’t touch the old gentleman with a pair o’ tongs.”

“Well, good night, Nal—­no, you mustn’t—­somebody might see.  Only one then!  Let me go, let me go!—­Good night, Nal.”

She ran swiftly away, holding high her skirts on account of the sticker grass.  Nal watched her retreating figure admiringly.

“A good gait,” he murmured critically, “no interferin’ an’ nothin’ gummy about the pastern!”

He then squatted down, cowboy fashion, upon his hams, and smoothing carefully a piece of level ground, began to—­what he called “figger.”  He wrote with a pointed stick and presently broke into a loud laugh.

“A low down trick,” he muttered, “to play upon a white man, but Mr. Bobo ain’t a white man, an’ mustn’t be treated as sech.”

He erased his hieroglyphics, and proceeded leisurely to prepare his simple supper.  He ate his bacon and beans with even more than usual relish, laughing softly to himself repeatedly, and when he had finished and the dishes were washed and put away, he selected, still laughing, a spade and crowbar from a heap of tools in the corner of his shanty.  These he shouldered and then strode out into the night.