Douglas crossed to his side and looked.
Polly was springing onto the back of Barbarian. He was a poorly trained horse, used by the other girl for more showy, but less dangerous feats than Polly's.
“She's goin' through her regular turn with him, she's tryin' ter break her neck,” said Jim. “She wants ter do it. It's your fault!” he cried, turning upon Douglas with bloodshot eyes. He was half insane, he cared little whom he wounded.
“Why can't we stop her?” cried Douglas, unable to endure the strain. He took one step inside the entrance.
“No, no; not that!” Jim dragged him back roughly. “If she sees you now, it will be the end.” They watched in silence. “She's over the first part,” Jim whispered, at last.
Douglas drew back, his muscles tense, as he watched the scene inside the ring. Eloise stood at the pastor's side, horror-stricken at Polly's reckless behaviour. She knew Barbarian. It was easy to guess the end.
“She's comin' to the hoops,” Jim whispered, hoarsely.
“Barbarian don't know that part, I never trained him,” the other girl said.
Polly made the first leap toward the hoops. The horse was not at fault; it was Polly. She plunged wildly, the audience started. She caught her footing with an effort. One, two, three hoops were passed. She threw herself across the back of the horse and hung, head downward, as he galloped around the ring. The band was playing loudly, the people were cheering. She rose to meet the last two hoops.
“She's swayin',” Jim shrieked in agony. “She's goin' to fall.” He covered his face with his hands.