“He always was a dressy old scoundrel,” remarked the Tuttle person. And then, as the music came to us once more, he continued: “Say, Sour-dough, let’s go over to the rodeo—they got some likely looking broncs over there.”
Arm in arm, accordingly, they crossed the street and proceeded to the carrousel, first warning the cabby and myself to stay by them lest harm should come to us. What now ensued was perhaps their most remarkable behaviour at the day. At the time I could account for it only by the liquor they had consumed, but later experience in the States convinced me that they were at times consciously spoofing. I mean to say, it was quite too absurd—their seriously believing what they seemed to believe.
The carrousel being at rest when we approached, they gravely examined each one of the painted wooden effigies, looking into such of the mouths as were open, and cautiously feeling the forelegs of the different mounts, keeping up an elaborate pretence the while that the beasts were real and that they were in danger of being kicked. One absurdly painted horse they agreed would be the most difficult to ride. Examining his mouth, they disputed as to his age, and called the cabby to have his opinion of the thing’s fetlocks, warning each other to beware of his rearing. The cabby, who was doubtless also intoxicated, made an equal pretence of the beast’s realness, and indulged, I gathered, in various criticisms of its legs at great length.
“I think he’s right,” remarked the Tuttle person when the cabby had finished. “It’s a bad case of splints. The leg would be blistered if I had him.”
“I wouldn’t give him corral room,” said Cousin Egbert. “He’s a bad actor. Look at his eye! Whoa! there—you would, would you!” Here he made a pretence that the beast had seized him by the shoulder. “He’s a man-eater! What did I tell you? Keep him away!”
“I’ll take that out of him,” said the Tuttle person. “I’ll show him who’s his master.”
“You ain’t never going to try to ride him, Jeff? Think of the wife and little ones!”
“You know me, Sour-dough. No horse never stepped out from under me yet. I’ll not only ride him, but I’ll put a silver dollar in each stirrup and give you a thousand for each one I lose and a thousand for every time I touch leather.”
Cousin Egbert here began to plead tearfully:
“Don’t do it, Jeff—come on around here. There’s a big five-year-old roan around here that will be safe as a church for you. Let that pinto alone. They ought to be arrested for having him here.”