I adjust saddle and blanket carefully from both sides, pulling the blanket well up under the horn of the saddle and making sure that it sets comfortably.  One should be considerate of the feelings of a dumb beast placed at one’s mercy.  Then I reach for the cinch, pass it twice through the rings, and delicately draw it up the merest trifle.  Dandy Jim shudders and moans pathetically.  He wishes to convey the impression that his ribs have been sprung.  This, of course, is nonsense.  I measureably increase the pressure.  Dandy Jim again registers consternation, coughs feebly, and rolls his eyes round appealingly, as if wondering whether the world is to sit, without heart, and watch a poor defenseless horse being slain.  He is about to expire.

I now lead him gently about by the bridle.  It occurs to me that a horse with this curious mania for binding cinches or cinching binders—­or, in other words, a cinch binder—­will be as willing to indulge in his favourite sport with the saddle unoccupied as otherwise.  He may like it even better with no one up there; and I know I will.  Nothing happens, except that Dandy Jim stumbles stiffly and pretends to be lame.  The sun is not yet well up; still, it is a lot better.  Perhaps danger for the day is over.  I again lead the dangerous beast—­

“What you humouring that old skate for?”

Ma Pettengill, arrayed in olive-drab shirt and breeches, leather puttees, and the wide-brimmed hat of her calling with the four careful dents in the top, observed me with friendly curiosity as she ties a corduroy coat to the back of her saddle.

Hereupon I explained my tactful handling of the reputed cinch binder.  It evoked the first cheerful sound I had heard that day: 

Ma Pettengill laughed heartily.

“That old hair trunk never had the jazz to be any cinch binder.  Who told you he was?”

I named names—­all I could remember.  Almost everyone on the ranch had passed me the friendly warning, and never had I saddled the brute without a thrill.

“Sure!  Them chuckleheads always got to tell everybody something.  It’s a wonder they ain’t sent you in to the Chink to borrow his meat auger, or out to the blacksmith shop for a left-handed monkey wrench, or something.  Come on!”

So that was it!  Just another bit of stale ranch humour—­alleged humour—­as if it could be at all funny to have me saddle this wreck with the tenderest solicitude morning after morning!

“Just one moment!” I said briskly.

I think Dandy Jim realized that everything of a tender nature between us was over.  Some curious and quite charming respect I had been wont to show him was now gone out of my manner.  He began to do deep breathing exercises before I touched the cinch.  I pulled with the strength of a fearless man.  Dandy Jim forthwith inflated his chest like a gentleman having his photograph taken in a bathing suit.  I waited, apparently foiled.  I stepped back,