The question was variously couched, but unanimously excited.
Except for this darting, swooping, whooping escort, the early advance of Pape’s escutcheon toward Fifth Avenue was accomplished without undue excitement. At Columbus Circle, however, the roving “wall” eyes of the beef-brute sighted the green of South Meadow. Doubtless its appetite was hurting for fresh grass after the long journey on cured food, his brain confused by the blur of strange sights and sounds, his muscles aching for the Montana-wide freedom so suddenly curtailed at the gate of a cow-town shipping pen.
Whether actuated by one or all of these impulses, or merely moved by inherent wildness, the red executed a flank movement that had nothing to do with steak. In terms of action he showed a desperate desire to throw off his rope shackles and bolt into Central Park. The press of vehicular traffic aided him by hampering his guard. Could they have spread out triangularly, they might have held him helpless. An attempted swerve tangled the puncher on the left in his own rope and forced him to dismount to save himself a spill. He on the right was prevented from closing in by regard for the young lives and limbs of their admirers.
Relieved of the three-ply pressure, the steer essayed a headdown rush to accept the gift of the grass. This soon was tautened into a three-legged run, through Pape’s hoof-hold from behind. At that, the captive had the over-plus of power and might easily have controlled their course except for ramming into a street car which had slowed down that the motor man might enjoy the show. In the moment in which he stood stunned, the unhorsed puncher regained his rope and saddle, his fellow cleared a way and Pape quit his drag from the rear. The steer stampede in Manhattan’s heart was under control. The lively Pape escutcheon again was headed toward its destination.
In front of the Sturgis house a groom was holding three saddlers. Pape’s wonder as to who might be riding with whom was answered. Scarcely had he and his aides stopped his hoofed exhibit when Jane Lauderdale, in a crisp gray riding suit, appeared from the vestibule. She was followed by Irene and Mills Harford. The trio stood at the top of the stone flight and gaped with sheer amazement at the unexpected delegation.
Irene was first to recover her sangfroid, probably because endowed with an excess of that quality.
“Only look who’s here!” was her lilt of greeting as she clattered down the steps. “The possible person back again and—— How in the world did you suspect, Why-Not, that I am keen about cows? This specimen is a perfect dar-rling. I could just hug her to death.”
“You could that—to your own death. Look out. Don’t come closer than the curb.”
With the warning, Pape threw a snake-like wriggle into his rope which loosened its noose-hold upon the hoof of the seemingly subdued steer. Coiling it upon his saddle horn, he swung to the asphalt and saluted her, army fashion.
Jane, from a stand halfway down the steps, added only the inquiry of her eyes.