Besides, Montana had spoiled me for wanting to be dressed like a baby, and I would much rather get my own hat and stick; I never had the chance, though.  I’d turn and find him just back of my elbow, with the things in his hands and that damned righteous look on his face, and generally I’d swear he did get on my nerves so.

I’m afraid I ruined him for a good servant, and taught him habits of idleness he’ll never outgrow; for every morning I’d send him below—­I won’t state the exact destination, but I have reasons for thinking he never got farther than the servants’ hall—­with strict—­and for the most part profane—­orders not to show his face again unless I rang.  Even at that, I always found him waiting up for me when I came home.  Oh, there was no changing the ways of Rankin.

I think it was about the middle of May when my general discontent with life in the old burgh took a virulent form.  I’d been losing a lot one way and another, and Barney and I had come together literally and with much force when we were having a spurt with our cars out toward Ingleside.  The Yellow Peril looked pretty sick when I picked myself out of the mess and found I wasn’t hurt except in my feelings.  Barney’s car only had the lamps smashed, and as he had run into me, that made me sore.  We said things, and I caught a street-car back to town.  Barney drove in, about as hot as I was, I guess.

So, when I got home and found a letter from Frosty, my mind was open for something new.  The letter was short, but it did the business and gave me a hunger for the old days that nothing but a hard gallop over the prairie-lands, with the wind blowing the breath out of my nostrils, could satisfy.  He said the round-up would start in about a week.  That was about all, but I got up and did something I’d never done before.

I took the letter and went straight down to dad’s private den and interrupted him when he was going over his afternoon letters with Crawford.  Dad was very particular not to be interrupted at such times; his mail-hours were held sacred, and nothing short of a life-or-death matter would have taken me in there—­in any normal state of mind.

Crawford started out of his chair—­if you knew Crawford that one action would tell you a whole lot—­and dad whirled toward me and asked what had happened.  I think they both expected to hear that the house was on fire.

“The round-up starts next week, dad,” I blurted, and then stopped.  It just occurred to me that it might not sound important to them.

Dad matched his finger-tips together.  “Since I first bought a bunch of cattle,” he drawled, “the round-up has never failed to start some time during this month.  Is it vitally important that it should not start?”

“I’ve got to start at once, or I can’t catch it.”  I fancied, just then, that I detected a glimmer of amusement on Crawford’s face.  I wanted to hit him with something.