"What do you think of that, Felix?" the Villicus asked me.
"As good horse-wrangling as can be seen anywhere," I replied. "Up to standard and even above normal. But I can do better."
"Bold words," said the Villicus; "we'll give you a chance to prove them."
Another filly was roped, bitted, bridled, and saddled, and her captors invited me to mount.
"Pooh!" said I. "Let some one else ride her. I don't need all those preliminaries. I can walk right out into that bunch of colts, catch any young stallion you point out, hold him by the nose, gentle him without any rope or thong on him, mount him by vaulting onto his back, and ride him about unbitted, unbridled, bareback, and as I please, without his rearing or backing or kicking."
"Son," said the Villicus, "you are either a lunatic or a demigod. Go in and try what you boast you can do. Show us."
"Point out your stallion," I suggested.
He indicated a beautiful bay with a white face. He let me approach him at my first attempt, let me take him by the nose, let me lead him close to my dumbfounded audience, let me mount him. I rode him about, turning him to right or left as the Villicus ordered, at my suggestion. When I got off I lifted each of his hoofs in succession, crawled under his belly, crawled between his fore-legs, and then between his hind-legs, while the onlookers held their breath; finally I stood behind him, slapped his rump and pulled his tail.
"Is he broken?" I queried.
"Apparently he is gentle as a lamb to you," the Villicus admitted, "but how about the rest of us?"