Suddenly she straightened up, trembling. Her heart gave a vicious buck and seemed to stand still; for, the last of the line (apparently a hasty afterthought in the entries), rode—Uncle Hank on Buckskin!
A breeze of bantering applause greeted the old man. Some of it came from the grandstand.
“Go it, Hank!”
“Hi, Pearsall, hi!”
“Say, Hank, whirl in and learn the boys how to rope a steer and tie him.”
One strange, squeaking, falsetto voice, the mere sound of which called out peals of mirth, piped:
“Well, I’ll be hanged—from head to foot! If old Hank Pearsall ain’t a-linin’ out after that kerridge.”
At the ludicrous tone and the laughter that answered it, a familiar voice bawled:
“Yes, and watch him get it too!”
Hilda looked to where Shorty stood, just below. She was thankful for a champion who could make himself heard. The great black eyes in her little peaked face flashed, and her lip trembled. They’d better not treat her Uncle Hank disrespectfully! But no—it was all right; the old man was laughing.