On tore Higginson Peabody. Dodge at last! Drawing a deep breath he swept down the main street like a tornado.
“Indians! Indians!” yelled Higginson Peabody.
Arriving opposite its home corral the pony set four hoofs and skated; recovering, it wheeled to the left. Higginson Peabody, by these abrupt manoeuvres, was spilled from the saddle “like a pup from a basket,” according to Mr. Kelly, who watched the ceremony from the Alhambra door.
Higginson Peabody reached the grass in a convenient ball. After a prolonged roll of twenty feet he scrambled up uninjured.
“Get your guns!” he cried to Mr. Kelly, and then began to run.
It was afterward a matter of regret in Dodge that no arrangements had been made for timing Higginson Peabody. He had only covered one hundred yards when he ran into the arms of Mr. Masterson, but it was the dispassionate judgment of both Mr. Kelly and Mr. Short, who, from their respective houses of entertainment, reviewed the feat, that he did those one hundred yards in better than ten seconds. Indeed, so much was popular admiration excited by the winged work of Higginson Peabody that, in commemoration thereof, Dodge renamed him the “Jackrabbit,” by which honourable appellation he was ever afterward known to its generous inhabitants.
“Get your guns!” shouted Higginson Peabody when stopped by the outspread arms.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Mr. Masterson.
“Indians!” yelled the fugitive, making an effort to resume his flight.
“Come,” said Mr. Masterson, refusing to be shaken off, “it’s only a joke. What you need now is a drink. Let’s push for Luke Short’s.”