AN IRISHMAN'S FORTUNE 183 



before I had driven him in Roddy McMahon's 

 buggy, which is usually a death-trap, across the 

 prairie towards the Fort and missed my way. 

 Suddenly a line snapped, and I remembered that 

 Dick was supposed to be only four years old — as a 

 matter of fact he was only three. We were nearing 

 the valley, and the noisy rattle of the old buggy 

 plus the sense of liberty that comes with the sudden 

 snapping of a line was quite enough to go to the 

 head of an older horse than the long-legged baby, 

 who just kept to his swift, strong pace between the 

 shafts as though nothing had happened, until I 

 coaxed him to obey my summons to halt. Many 

 men murmured against Dick's ways on the land, 

 but he was too young to have worked with the 

 three heavy horses on the implements, and I think 

 he gradually grew to connect men with the work he 

 hated and women with his oats and the work he 

 liked. He was always obedient and kind and helpful, 

 and seemed to know when the others were trying 

 one's patience, and did his best to make things easy 

 all round. 



On Tuesday night Roddy McMahon came in 

 with an air of regret. 



" I guess Pat's off to-night, or leastways to- 

 morrow," he said. " He says he owes you an extra 

 day 'count of the rain." 



" But why off ? " I exclaimed. " You say his 

 work is excellent, and of course I will pay him its 

 proper value. Say a dollar a day until you go, and 

 then thirty dollars a month until harvest, and through 

 harvest — harvest money." 



^ He went out with the information. But Pat was 

 unyielding — his heart was on the trail. I gave him 



