“Now for it, old fellow!”
With one swift backward glance at the furious human wave sweeping down upon them, they darted towards the bulls, of which the two largest, accustomed to the daily tumult of town and temple, were still composedly feeding, their muzzles buried deep in the mound of corn.
Before the animals had time to lift their heads, the mock pilgrims were on their backs and plying knives and heels upon their sleek flanks.
Bellowing with pain and terror, the bulls, with tails erect and heads lowered, charged the throng about the doorway, bowling them over in all directions like so many ninepins. Before the infuriated crowd in their rear understood the meaning of this unexpected manoeuvre, the mock pilgrims were in the street.
It was a side street, fortunately, separated from the densely-packed maidan by a high brick wall, and but few natives were about. Those who followed them out of the temple, too, they soon distanced, for their ungainly steeds made capital time.
But now a new, if less serious, danger menaced them. Apart from the difficulty of clinging to the round, arched backs of the bulls, once started, the maddened animals could not be stopped. Fortunately, they took the direction of the hill-path.
On they tore, bellowing madly, and scattering showers of foam and sand right and left, until, in an amazingly brief space of time, they reached the outskirts of the town. Here, as if divining that their services were no longer required, the bulls stopped abruptly, shooting their riders off their backs into the sand with scant ceremony.
“Regular buck-jumpers!” groaned Jack, rubbing his lacerated shins ruefully. “Glad we're safe out of it, anyhow.”
“So am I. But I wonder where Spottie is?” said Don, fanning himself with the loosened end of his turban.
Jack started up. “Never once thought of Spottie since we entered the shrine,” cried he. “Come, we must go back and look him up.”