The performers of “Number Seven” rode quietly to the centre of the field, where one stooped to plunge into the soft earth a large knife, burying the blade to the hilt. Then the six horsemen wheeled and rode slowly back to the starting-point, whence, at the fifer’s signal, they began a wild and wide circuit of the “ring,” repeating this several times. Each repetition brought them nearer to the centre; and at last, when they had attained their maddest, fleetest pace, the contestants uttered a shout, and bore down upon the projecting knife-handle. Each rider leaned far out of his saddle, his brow almost sweeping the ground, his eyes fixed upon one object, and his jaws set firmly for their task.
“But—don’t understand. Eh?”
“The knife! the knife! See! Each has one trial; each seeks to be first. See how they crowd! To pull it out with his teeth—See! See! Ah! Natan´! Na-tan´!” The child’s voice rose to a shrill cheer, which was caught up and echoed again and again.
Natan´, indeed, who with the knife-hilt still in his teeth and the fierce-looking blade presented to the view of the spectators, lifted his hat in acknowledgment of the plaudits, and rode straight toward his beloved “Mascot.” Then he accomplished a second feat, scarcely less difficult than the first; for still at break-neck speed he reached Steenie’s side, and, without touching the knife with his hands, thrust it deftly through a gay little cockade fixed to Tito’s head-stall. Then he rode off again at the same unbroken pace, and the “Seventh Number” of the programme was ended.
“Hark! the fifer again! That is my signal!” exclaimed Steenie, and waving her hand, galloped away to join the “boys.”
“Number Eight” was a trial of skill almost as difficult as the “knife race” had been, and consisted in lifting from the ground, while riding at full speed, a handkerchief which had been thrown there. Now, Steenie’s childish arms could not compete with those of grown men, and to supplement their shortness she was to hold the knife which Natan´ had won, and catch up the handkerchief on its point,—if she could!
“Of course, it is a foregone conclusion that she will win,” remarked some person near Mr. Calthorp. “Those fellows idolize that child, and they won’t half try to beat her.”
“Beg pardon, but it will be a ‘fair, square’ trial,” corrected the manager, turning toward the speaker. “Steenie would not ride if they had not promised her that. She is determined to win, and I think she will, but she will do so honestly. She is quicker of motion than the others, and has a judgment about distances which seems like instinct. Besides, she and Tito have grown up together, and he understands her like a second self.”
“Hm-m. Not afraid? Danger? Thrown?”
“No, my lord, I am not afraid. She never was thrown, and she began her riding in the first year of her life.”