“Well, what of it? We can’t go,” came from a cadet known as Parson Stanard, a tall, thin fellow hailing from Boston.
“Yes, but listen,” went on the first speaker. “This ’ere bill says as how they got a Texas bronco that nobody kin ride. Now, I ain’t a going to stand that, nohow. I’ll ride the bronco or bust myself a-tryin’.”
And Texas, otherwise known as Jeremiah Powers, from Hurricane County, Texas, leaped to his feet in his excitement.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Do? I’m a-goin’ to go down to town after dinner, and ride that bronco—or——”
“But it’s out of bounds, I tell you.”
“I’ll git a disguise, that’s wot I’ll do. I ain’t a-goin’ to spend a holiday afternoon sittin’ roun’ this camp while there’s a circus goin’ on. You fellers kin ef you want to. I ain’t seen a circus only once, an’ that was the same day I went to church. I rode fifty-six miles ’cross country to take in the both of ’em.”
After imparting that interesting bit of information, Texas seated himself on the platform of the tent once more and fell to reading assiduously the vivid programme of Smithers’ Circus, with its menagerie, dime museum and theatre combined, to say nothing of Circassian ladies, tattooed South Sea Islanders, fat ladies and living skeletons. The whole thing impressed Texas mightily, and when he finished he turned to the other two in the tent.
“I’ll bet you,” he growled, “ef Mark Mallory war here he’d go with me. I dunno how I’d live in this hyar place ef Mark Mallory warn’t in it. He’s got more life than any dozen o’ you fellers. The Banded Seven, that air society we plebes got up to stop the hazin’, wouldn’t ever do anything ef ’twarn’t fo’ him bein’ leader.”
“When will Mark be out of hospital?” inquired one of the others.