Phil laughed uproariously. He could not help it. None could––excepting possibly the man who owned the horse. To look at the animal gave one a sensation of dizziness.
The old bar-lounger, who had been so anxious to know what the trouble was about, was the first to give way under it.
“Holy mackinaw! I’ve got them again. Talk about seein’ snakes,” he cried, turning toward the saloon door and putting his hands over his eyes as if to shut out the sight, “hydrophobey, or delirious tremblin’s ain’t got nothin’ on that. Say, Heck!––mix me up a drink o’ gasoline and Condy’s Fluid, so’s I kin forgit it.”
“Only wan thing wrong wid her,” exclaimed an Irish pig-breeder from Tipperary; “she should ’a’ been painted Emerild Green.”
“Yes,––or maybe Orange,” commented his friend who hailed from Ulster.
But with Percival DeRue Hannington it was a serious 237 crime and he was in no mood to see any humour in the situation.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, as the crowd began to dwindle back, “I’ll give one hundred dollars cash to any one of you who can tell me who did this. My offer holds good for a week.”
At that particular moment, the offer of a bribe did not bring to the fore any informers, so DeRue Hannington, riding a spare horse and leading his favourite by a halter rope, jogged his way homeward.
He had hardly gone the length of a block, when the comparative quiet of a respectable western saloon was again broken in upon. There was a clatter of hoofs outside which came to an abrupt stoppage; a heavy scrambling on the wooden steps leading to the veranda which ran round the hotel, an encouraging shout from a familiar voice, a clearing of passageway;––and Jim Langford, in all his gay trappings, still astride his well-trained horse, was occupying the middle of the bar-room floor, bowing profusely right and left to the astonished onlookers, making elaborate sweeps with his hat.
Everyone stopped, open-mouthed.