"Wait and see what he does," suggested another, who had been watching the practice work of the fat boy recently.
Buster pulled himself together. He seemed to gauge the capacity of his tub for bearing up his weight, for he slid himself over the edge with a precision gained from long practice.
"He's in!" whooped a delighted fan.
"No, he's out!" echoed another, as Buster, having acquired too much momentum took a header over the further side of his round and awkward craft, once more bringing up with a splash in the water.
Meanwhile his competitors were striving madly to cover up the space separating them from the one in advance. They were coming on with considerable confidence and speed, trying to avoid the calamity that had apparently overtaken Buster.
"There he goes at it again. Mount him, Buster; hold his mane and climb on! Don't let a bucking broncho do you, old fellow! Now you've got him! Whoa! don't slide off the other side of the saddle, boy! Whoop! he's done it, fellows."
Once more Buster was securely settled in his tub, having accomplished a feat seldom successfully engineered by contestants in a tub race. Again he set a pace for the goal, and this time he absolutely refused to look back, no matter how the crowd shouted to him to take just one peep.
Consequently Buster came in an easy winner, for the other two, finding themselves hopelessly beaten, started to striving with each other as if to see which could upset the other out of his wabbly craft.
Frank gave a sigh of relief. His sense of satisfaction had nothing to do with the victory of Buster Billings, however. It was occasioned by seeing Lanky come up the bank, and noting the look of triumph on his lean face.
"What have you been doing, Lanky?" he managed to ask, as the other passed by.