"If this isn't the worst o' the bunch, I'm a scarecrow," he groaned inwardly. "Why in thunder did I let those chaps have first choice?" He vaguely wondered if there were any nice soft spots around for him to fall upon. Then:
"Whoa, boy, whoa!" he whispered softly.
The broncho, his sides quivering ominously, stood still.
"Whoa, boy, whoa!"
Desperately, Jack put his foot in the stirrup, and, with a do-or-die look, vaulted quickly on the animal's back.
Then the hearts of the onlookers were thrilled by a startling exhibition.
With a maddened snort, the sorrel bounded high in the air. Down came its four legs in a bunch, sharp hoofs sending a shower of flying turf. Jack found himself on the animal's neck, struggling frantically to keep his hold, then tossed violently against the high-backed cowboy saddle.
For a moment it was a question of which way he would be sent flying. But Jack fought with all the courage and determination that was in him. Each movement of the vicious little animal jarred and jolted him with terrific force. Spectators, buildings and grounds all flashed before his eyes in confused streaks of light and dark.
"Good for you, Jack!"
Bob Somers' loud yell carried encouragement to the big boy's heart. He dug his knees hard against the heaving form, and just as it seemed beyond human endurance to stand that nerve-racking bucking another instant the sorrel quieted down and stood stock still, his dilated nostrils sending up clouds of steam.