"Friend," he said, "if it's none of my business, of course you'll let me know, but you've been around a little, haven't you? Seen the world, mebbe? Well now, what's the wonderfulest thing you ever see?"
A flush of pleasure mantled Bowles' sunburned face, for it was the first time he had been addressed as man to man since he struck the Bat Wing; but he did not lose the point—Brigham had a bigger story to bring out and he was waiting for a lead.
"Well," he said, "I have seen a good many wonderful exhibitions, but the one that I think of at this moment as the most striking was Selim, the diving horse. You remember him, I guess—out at Coney Island. He was a beautiful horse, wasn't he? Snowy white, with a long, flowing mane, and intelligent as a human. He mounted to a platform forty-five feet high and leaped off into a pool of water. That was the most wonderful thing I ever saw, because he did it all by himself—climbed up to the platform, stepped out to the diving-place, and jumped off when his master said the word. Yes, that was certainly wonderful."
"You bet!" assented Brig, regarding him with admiring eyes; but the others were not so easily satisfied. That was one thing they claimed to be up on—horses—and they looked the solemn stranger over dubiously.
"How high did you say that platform was?" inquired Uncle Joe cautiously. "Forty-five—well, that was shore high. I cain't hardly git my hawse to cross the crick."
"How deep was that pool?" spoke up Bar Seven, the stray man. "Ten foot? Huh! Say, boys, this reminds me of that divin' story of Brig's!"
"Well, what's the matter with that divin' story of mine?" demanded Brigham orgulously. "You're behind the times, Bar Seven. While you was on yore way this gentleman come into camp, and he's seen that done himself. What do you know about it, anyhow—spent all yore life punchin' cows and eatin' sand—what do you know about divin', anyhow?"
"Well, they's one thing I do know," retorted Bar Seven, "and that's hawses. I been with hawses all my life, and you cain't tell me about no hawse divin'—stands to reason he'd hit the bottom and break his neck, anyway!"
"Perhaps I would better explain," broke in Bowles politely. "When the horse leaves the platform he slides down an inclined chute, below which is hung a heavily padded board. As the horse slips off he naturally kicks and struggles, and his feet, flying out behind, strike the padded board so that, while he leaps off headforemost, he rights himself in the air and falls into the pool feet first. Of course, forty-five feet is quite a distance, but he probably never goes to the bottom at all."
"Well, that's all right," admitted Bar Seven. "I don't know about that—but tell me this, stranger: How does the man git that hawse to climb up there and take the jump? Tell me that, and I'll believe anything!"