THE ROUND-UP 



"Mercy! Why, what on earth is that man doing?" 



"Chawing his ear, mum," replies a big sombreroed 

 man to the lady visiting from Chicago. 



Couch mounts cautiously, feeling his way into the 

 saddle. No Name concaves his back and crouches close 

 to the ground like a cat, then shoots from the wran- 

 glers like a bombshell, kicks, rears, and plunges in the 

 vain effort to loose those clinging legs from his sides, 

 finally displaying his temper in vain attempts to reach 

 them with his teeth. 



'That's sailin' high!" 



"Another live 'un!" bellows the crowd. 



Couch plays his game well and makes a wonderful 

 ride; likewise does Cavin, who is up second and has 

 drawn Light foot. See that wicked, little sunfisher 

 hunch, dive and twist his best, but the Idaho boy does 

 not even show daylight! There is little to choose be- 

 tween the two rides. They have been executed in the 

 same spirit of game sportsmanship as Corporal Roy 

 Hunter's bout with a Texas longhorn, that thrilled the 

 entire throng and made him perhaps the chief hero of 

 that Round-Up. 



"My I shouldn't think they'd let that lame man in 

 the arena," remarks our same friend from the Windy 

 City, as a bandaged-up cowboy hobbles his crutchety 

 way across the open. 



"Why, that's my pal, Bob Hall, mum ! — Broncho Bob 

 Hall," interpolates her broad-brimmed bureau of in- 

 formation. 



"Well, but why do they let him? He may get 

 hurt" 



"Hurt! He's already hurt, but he's goin' ter see if 

 he can't git hurt s'more — See, he's going up. If it 

 was any other feller he'd be lookin' for a soft spot, but 



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