made impossible the sort of thing he said he craved — a long, hard, rough trip into a mountain interior. The Rockies, preferably, in their jaggedest portions.

“That’s the kind of thing that makes a fellow over. Roughing it. You forget about the city. In the saddle all day — nothing but sky and mountains. God’s big open spaces! That’s the life!”

Myra trudged along, painfully. “But isn’t it awfully uncomfortable? You know. Cold? And tents? I don’t think I’d like — — ”

“I wouldn’t give a cent for a person who was so soft they couldn’t stand roughing it a little. That’s the trouble with you Easterners. Soft! No red blood. Too many street cars, and