Then, as the animal lowered its head, the rider toppled over, still clinging to the neck of his mount. Such a chorus of laughter and shouting the Jessup ranch had never known before.
"How is it, Mr. Umpire?" piped Stacy, releasing one hand from the pony's neck and raising it questioningly.
"This isn't a baseball game, young fellow," jeered the foreman. "This is a hoss race and you've won it. The black wins and you get the rifle."
The grimy hand that the lad had held aloft still clung to the remnants of the roast sandwich that he had carried throughout race.
CHAPTER XVIII
TAD WINS A ROPING CONTEST
In their enthusiasm two of the ranchers hoisted Chunky to their shoulders and marched about singing. Others fell in behind them until fully half the spectators had joined the procession. Chunky leered down at his companions as he passed them and winked solemnly.
"I didn't suppose he could ride like that," marveled Tom Phipps.
"Neither did any of the rest of us," answered Walter.
"I never saw a more plucky piece of work in my life."