Smasher never moved an inch; even his eyes never opened. The yokel took hold of the bridle, straightened himself up to a stiff and awkward position and gazed about him with an air of delicious triumph. The multitude began to cheer.
“That’s fine,” said Smithers, smiling blandly. “Really fine! Now make him go.”
The hayseed laid hold of the bridle and gave it a jerk.
“Git ap!” said he.
And the bronco got. He only moved one-half of his body; his heels went up in one cataclysmic plunge, and the rider went through the air like a streak. He picked himself up with a good deal of sawdust in his mouth, way over in the opposite corner. The crowd simply howled with laughter and Smithers beamed benignantly.
“The challenge still stands,” said he, laughing at the plight of the farmer, who limped to his feet with a look on his face that led the facetious cornetist in the band to play faintly:
“I’ll never go there any more.”
Which made the crowd laugh all the louder.
“Next!” roared the proprietor. “Somebody else come try it now! Next!”
At this stage of the game Mark unbottled Texas; and Texas arose slowly and made his way down to the ring.