He lifted the stirrup--it was a little stock saddle, with everything just like a big saddle except the size; Daddy Chip had had it made for the Kid in Cheyenne, last Christmas--and began to undo the latigo, whistling self-consciously and finding that his lips kept trying to come unpuckered all the time, and trying to tremble just the way they did when he cried.

He had no intention of crying.
"Gee! I always wanted to camp out and watch the stars," he told Silver stoutly.

"Honest to gran'ma, I think this is just--simply--GREAT! I bet them nester kids would be scared.

Hunh!" That helped a lot.

The Kid could whistle better after that.