Little Warhorse 
caught his eye: it was the track of a large 
Jack-rabbit. He asked a passer-by if there 
were any Rabbits in town. 
‘‘No, I reckon not. I never seen none,” 
was the answer. A mill-hand gave the same 
reply, but a small boy with a bundle of news- 
papers said: ‘You bet there is; there ’s lots 
of them out there on the prairie, and they come 
in town a-plenty. Why, there ’s a big, big 
feller lives right round Si Kalb’s melon-patch— 
oh, an awful big feller, and just as black and 
as white as checkers!” and thus he sent the 
stranger eastward on his walk. 
The “big, big, awful big one” was the Little 
Warhorse himself. He did n’t live in Kalb’s 
melon-patch; he was there only at odd times. 
He was not there now; he was in his west- 
fronting form or bed, because a raw east wind 
was setting in. It was due east of Madison 
Avenue, and as the stranger plodded that way 
the Rabbit watched him. As long as the man 
kept the road the Jack was quiet, but the road 
turned shortly to the north, and the man by 
chance left it and came straight on. Then 
the Jack saw trouble ahead. The moment the 
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