“To-o-o-om Wilson on Tequila! Let’s go-o-o-o-o! There’s a bucker! Climb the moon, bronc! Rake’m, Tommy! Rake ’em! Use yore feet. In the shoulders! The shoulders, Tom! Them two humps jist ahead of yore feet! A-a-a-a-w, pshaw!
“No, ma’am, he didn’t. Good rider? Yes’m—morally. Was I pullin’ for him? Shore was. Look at that shirt he’s wearin’. I didn’t want it. No, ma’am, there ain’t no good riders left. They’re all gettin’ so short-legged that we’ll have to breed stock that have got their shoulders four feet nearer their rump.
“Ladee-e-e-e-es and gentl’men! Next e-event will be the steer wrasslin’. Yes’m, there’ll be dust—plenty. No, ma’am; nobody will git hurt—not even the S.P.C.A.”
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the October 1, 1927 issue of Adventure magazine.