“I—­I was.”

Pete dropped his hat, but he did not know it until, well—­several minutes later, when Doris gave it to him.

It was close to midnight when a solitary policeman, passing down a side street, heard a nocturnal singer inform dark and empty High Street that he was

  “The Ridin’ Kid from Powder River,”—­

with other more or less interesting details.

Pete felt a hand on his shoulder.  “You better cut that out!” said the officer.

Pete whirled and his hand flickered toward his hip.  “You go plumb to—­” Pete hesitated.  The officer sniffed suspiciously.  Pete grinned—­then proffered his hand with irresistible enthusiasm.

“Sure I’ll cut it out.”

THE END

The Riverside Press

Cambridge, Massachusetts

U.S.A.