When the noise abated somewhat, “And this, la-a-a-dies and gen’l’mun, is the peerless, cowpuncher, ‘Bud Reeves.’”

Bud at once imitated the example of Happy Morgan, and one after another the five remaining riders followed suit.  In the meantime a number of prancing, kicking, savage-eyed horses were brought into the arena and to these the master of ceremonies now turned his attention.

“From the wildest regions of the range we have brought mustangs that never have borne the weight of man.  They fight for pleasure; they buck by instinct.  If you doubt it, step down and try ’em.  One hundred dollars to the man who sticks on the back of one of ’em—­but we won’t pay the hospital bill!”

He lowered his megaphone to enjoy the laughter, and the small man took this opportunity to say:  “Never borne the weight of a man!  That chap in the dress-suit, he tells one lie for pleasure and ten more from instinct.  Yep, he has his hosses beat.  Never borne the weight of man!  Why, Drew, I can see the saddle-marks clear from here; I got a mind to slip down there and pick up the easiest hundred bones that ever rolled my way.”

He rose to make good his threat, but Drew cut in with:  “Don’t be a damn fool, Werther.  You aren’t part of this show.”

“Well, I will be soon.  Watch me!  There goes Ananias on his second wind.”

The announcer was bellowing:  “These man-killing mustangs will be ridden, broken, beaten into submission in fair fight by the greatest set of horse-breakers that ever wore spurs.  They can ride anything that walks on four feet and wears a skin; they can—­”

Werther sprang to his feet, made a funnel of his hand, and shouted:  “Yi-i-i-ip!”

If he had set off a great quantity of red fire he could not more effectively have drawn all eyes upon him.  The weird, shrill yell cut the ringmaster short, and a pleased murmur ran through the crowd.  Of course, this must be part of the show, but it was a pleasing variation.

“Partner,” continued Werther, brushing away the big hand of Drew which would have pulled him down into his seat; “I’ve seen you bluff for two nights hand running.  There ain’t no man can bluff all the world three times straight.”

The ringmaster retorted in his great voice:  “That sounds like good poker.  What’s your game?”

“Five hundred dollars on one card!” cried Werther, and he waved a fluttering handful of greenbacks.  “Five hundred dollars to any man of your lot—­or to any man in this house that can ride a real wild horse.”

“Where’s your horse?”

“Around the corner in a Twenty-sixth Street stable.  I’ll have him here in five minutes.”

“Lead him on,” cried the ringmaster, but his voice was not quite so loud.

Werther muttered to Drew: 

“Here’s where I hand him the lemon that’ll curdle his cream,” and ran out of the box and straight around the edge of the arena.  New York, murmuring and chuckling through the vast galleries of the Garden, applauded the little man’s flying coat-tails.