There were names semi-scriptural
and semi-foreign in Askatoon, but no name like Orlando Guise had ever
come that way before, and nothing like the man himself had ever ridden
the Askatoon trails. One thing had to be said, however; he rode the trail
like a broncho-buster, and he sat his horse as though he had been born in
the saddle.--On this particular day, in spite of his garish "get-up," he
seemed to belong to the life in which he was lightheartedly whistling a
solo from one of Meyerbeer's operas. Meyerbeer was certainly incongruous
to the prairie, but it and the whistling were in keeping with the man
himself.
Over on Slow Down Ranch there lived a curious old lady who wore a bonnet
of Sweet Sixteen of the time of the Crimea, and with a sense of colour
which would wreck the reputation of a kaleidoscope. She it was who had
taught her son Orlando the tunefulness of Meyerbeer and Balfe and
Offenbach, and the operatic jingles of that type of composer. Orlando
Guise had come by his outward showiness naturally. Yet he was not like
his mother, save in this particular. His mother was flighty and had no
sense, while he, behind the gaiety of his wardrobe and his giggles, had
very much sense of a quite original kind. Even as he whistled Meyerbeer,
riding towards Tralee, his eyes had a look of one who was trying to see
into things; and his lips, when the whistling ceased, had a cheerful
pucker which seemed to show that he had seen what he wanted.
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