And Barney entered into the hell of education that later won his purchaser more time than he could deliver over the best vaudeville circuits in Canada and the United States.  Day after day Barney took his torture.  Not for long did he carry the spiked saddle.  Instead, bare-back, he received the negro on his back, and was spiked and set bucking just the same; for the spike was now attached to Sam’s palm by means of leather straps.  In the end, Barney became so “touchy” about his back that he almost began bucking if a person as much as looked at it.  Certainly, aware of the stab of pain, he started bucking, whirling, and kicking whenever the first signal was given of some one trying to mount him.

At the end of the fourth week, two other tumblers, white youths, being secured, the complete, builded turn was performed for the benefit of a slender, French-looking gentleman, with waxed moustaches.  In the end he bought Barney, without haggling, at Collins’s own terms and engaged Sammy and the other two tumblers as well.  Collins staged the trick properly, as it would be staged in the theatre, even had ready and set up all the necessary apparatus, and himself acted as ringmaster while the prospective purchaser looked on.

Barney, fat as butter, humorous-looking, was led into the square of cloth-covered steel cables and cloth-covered steel uprights.  The halter was removed and he was turned loose.  Immediately he became restless, the ears were laid back, and he was a picture of viciousness.

“Remember one thing,” Collins told the man who might buy.  “If you buy him, you’ll be ringmaster, and you must never, never spike him.  When he comes to know that, you can always put your hands on him any time and control him.  He’s good-natured at heart, and he’s the gratefullest mule I’ve ever seen in the business.  He’s just got to love you, and hate the other three.  And one warning:  if he goes real bad and starts biting, you’ll have to pull out his teeth and feed him soft mashes and crushed grain that’s steamed.  I’ll give you the recipe for the digestive dope you’ll have to put in.  Now—­watch!”

Collins stopped into the ring and caressed Barney, who responded in the best of tempers and tried affectionately to nudge and shove past on the way out of the ropes to escape what he knew was coming.

“See,” Collins exposited.  “He’s got confidence in me.  He trusts me.  He knows I’ve never spiked him and that I always save him in the end.  I’m his good Samaritan, and you’ll have to be the same to him if you buy him.—­Now I’ll give you your spiel.  Of course, you can improve on it to suit yourself.”

The master-trainer walked out of the rope square, stepped forward to an imaginary line, and looked down and out and up as if he were gazing at the pit of the orchestra beneath him, across at the body of the house, and up into the galleries.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he addressed the sawdust emptiness before him as if it were a packed audience, “this is Barney Barnato, the biggest joker of a mule ever born.  He’s as affectionate as a Newfoundland puppy—­just watch—­”