He and Bud were inseparable, and Bud never tired of telling him yarns about cow-punching and Indian fighting, while the boy proved a breathless listener, hanging upon every word that fell from the yellow-haired cowboy’s lips.

He knew by heart many of the adventures through which Ted Strong had passed, and often surprised Ted by correcting some inaccuracy which, through a lapse of memory, Ted had made.

They were sailing across Missouri toward the West, and the boy kept his face glued to the window, watching for the first glimpse of the golden West of his fancy.  Just at present he saw only farms and little towns, through which the fast train whizzed without stopping.

The boy knew this sort of country well, and was rather disappointed that the boundless prairie did not roll before him from horizon to horizon.

Then he turned his attention to the luxury of the car, but being a healthy boy, this did not impress him long, and he turned to his heroes for relief.

Bud was sitting comfortably sprawled out on two seats, singing softly to himself.  Bud could not sing a little bit, but he thought he could, which served his purpose personally quite as well as if he could.

Ben was in the seat behind him, reading.  After a while Bud’s music, or the lack of it, got on Ben’s nerves, and he reached over and poked Bud on top of his golden head with the corner of his book.

“Say,” said he, “put on the soft pedal, won’t you?  Perhaps you can sing, and maybe some one told you you could, but take it from me you have no more voice or musical ability than a he-goat.”

“Oh, mercy!” retorted Bud.  “Does my music annoy you?”

“It certainly does,” snapped Ben.

“Then why don’t yer move away?”

“Bah!  You’re an old goat.”

“Thanks fer ther compliment, although yer don’t mean it thet away.  But when yer likens me ter a goat yer do me proud.  If yer were more goatlike yerself ye’d be a heap more wiser.”

“I’m glad you like it.  The pleasure’s all yours.  But if a fellow called me a goat, I know what I’d do.”

“Maybe, perhaps.  But yer needn’t be afraid that any one will liken yer ter a goat.  Any self-respectin’ goat would get sore at it.  If I wuz ter pick out yer counterpart in ther animile world, I’d say yer most resembled the phillaloo?”

“What’s a phillaloo?”

“A phillaloo is a cross between a penguin and a jassack.”

“Say, you long-haired lobster!” cried Ben, leaping to his feet, apparently in great anger, “don’t you call me anything like that.”

“Well, didn’t yer jest call me a goat?”

“Yes, but—­”

“Then sit down an’ git back ter yer love story; we’re square.  Nothin’ is lost on both sides.  But callin’ me a goat don’t make me sore none.  I jest dote on goats.  If I wasn’t jest what I am, I’d sooner be a goat than a collidge gradooate.”

“I’ve heard about enough, if you’re alluding to me.”