“I don’t bet,” rejoined Jack, “but I hope the best man wins.”
The Mexican, with a glance of contempt, replied:
“Peste! You are only boys. Mocho chico. What chance have you to win? You had better withdraw before you are covered with shame by your failure.”
“Guess we’re not worrying,” rejoined Jack easily, “but it’s your turn, senor.”
“So it is. Behold, and you shall see with what ease I will get zee ring.”
He thundered confidently off. Alas, for the caballero’s hopes! It is true that he “got it” in one sense, but instead of getting the ring he got the bag with a force that sent his sombrero spinning into the crowd.
“Not so easy as it looks, eh?” laughed Jack, as the discomfited Mexican came riding back with a black frown on his face.
“Santa Maria, it was my horse’s fault,” he declared, “the brute is no good. He is a beast; what you Gringoes call a ‘skate.’”
He began spurring the animal savagely, making the poor creature jump and caper about in its agony.