"Why, certainly," said Bowles. "At the time of which I speak, a young girl rode on his back when he made the plunge—just to make it more exciting, you know—but I watched the man quite closely, and really it was very interesting. First the girl went up the long incline, which had a railing and was provided with cleats, of course. Then the trainer brought Selim out and gave him a handful of sugar from his pocket, rubbing his head and talking to him while he was begging for more, until he had him up to the chute. There he stripped the halter off and spoke to him, and the horse started up by himself, he was so eager for the reward. At the top the girl mounted him and turned him down the diving-chute; and, don't you know, the first thing he did when he got to land was to trot back and get his sugar!"
"Oh, sugar!" cried Bar Seven, in disgust; but somehow the circumstantiality of the narrative seemed to carry conviction with the others, and he found himself alone.
"What breed of hawse was that?" inquired Uncle Joe, after a pause.
"A pure-blooded Arabian," answered Bowles; "supposed to be the most intelligent horses in the world. The Arabians, you know, keep their horses about their tents and raise them as if they were children, teaching them to understand the human voice and to answer like a dog."
"W'y, sure!" broke in Brigham, artfully taking the lead again. "Don't you fellers remember that story in the school book about Ali Ben Hassan, or whatever his name was, that was wounded in a battle and his hawse picked him up by his belt and packed him back to his tent? I tell you, them A-rabs are a pretty smooth bunch of hombres. They not only savvy hawses from the ground up but they're the finest jugglers and strong-armed men that the world has ever seen. I remember back at Coney they was three brothers that did sech tricks you couldn't hardly believe it.
"They was called the Hassan brothers—all A-rabs is either named Hassan or A-li—and the oldest one was a balancer. That feller could balance a peacock feather on his nose—throw a flip-flap clean over it, and come up with it still on his nose—but that was jest fer a starter. His big stunt was balancin' clay pipes. He'd take a hundred and forty-four long-handled pipes, balance 'em one on top of the other, and then skip up to the top and set there while he took a smoke."
"What! One on top of the other?" demanded Bar Seven incredulously.
"Aw, no, you bone head!" replied Brigham impatiently. "What d'ye think—would he pile 'em up a hundred foot high? He made 'em into a kind of pyramid-like—but he was nothin' to his younger brother. That feller was a rope-sharp. You punchers think you can twirl the rope some, but you're back in the calf corral alongside of him. He could throw a loop out on the floor, and send it quilin' around like a snake, hoppin' over chairs and tables like a trained dog, and then have it come back and hog-tie 'im at one lick, so that an expert couldn't unfasten the knots in half an hour. But that was jest good rope work with him; his big play come at the end when he tied a twenty-pound weight at the end of it and began to swing it round. By Joe, that was great! And then, right at the end, when he pulled his big stuff, he heaved that weight forty foot into the air, clum up the rope and set down on top of it smokin' his cigar! Now, by grab, can you beat that?"
"Kin we beat it?" echoed Bar Seven and the bunch. "Kin we believe it—that's the point!"
"Well, what's the matter with it?" demanded Brigham irritably. "Seems like every time I tell you cotton-pickers anythin' you up an' call me a liar. What's the matter, anyway?"