Sutro Vives really led the cavalcade, having been appointed to this honor because of his age, and perhaps of his assumption,—for he was not the one to lose the prestige a little swagger gives to a weak argument; and, although he was a fine rider, there were many others finer, and Kentucky Bob’s great gray horse was far ahead of pretty Mazan´ for symmetry and graceful strength.
However, the latter person was quite willing to “play second fiddle so long’s the Little Un’s with me,” and she had naturally guided Tito to the gray’s side.
The other actors in the entertainment followed in single file, and even a captious critic would have been forced to admit that they made a magnificent appearance. The glossy sides, the waving manes and tails, the gay caparisons and the regular hoof-beats of the beautiful animals fitly accorded with that free bearing of the stalwart riders, which is native to those who dwell in wide spaces and under no roof but the sky.
Upon Lord Plunkett, to whom all this was new, the impression made by that scene was profound. It exceeded his highest expectations, and they had been great. It made him feel himself a bigger man—physically and mentally—to be served by such men as these, and his kindly heart warmed to the “Americans” then and there with a degree of respect and cordiality he had never before accorded them.
Then the marchings and countermarchings began, and Steenie with a childish caprice darted out of the ranks again and back to her father’s side, to whom she eagerly described all that was going forward; already learning with the intuition of her tender heart to become “sight to the blind,” and assuming toward him a motherly air which sat quaintly enough upon her merry face.
“Eh? What? Hm-m. Why?” queried the guest of honor, as, some time later, a prolonged shout rent the air; for he could see nothing especially fine about the half-dozen lads who now rode into the arena upon the backs of their rough-coated bronchos.
“The programme!” cried Steenie, determined that a paper prepared with such labor by one of her “boys” should be duly appreciated.
“Hm-m! ‘Number Seven. Knife Act!’ Well? What?”
“Watch and see, dear Mr. Plunkett! Look—look! It’s better than telling.”
“And something as difficult as rare,” added Mr. Calthorp.