“You can change the patter according to the cities you’re in,” he explained to the Frenchman.  “It’s easy to find out the names of the most despised and toughest neighbourhoods or villages, and have the boys hail from them.”

Continuing the patter, Collins put the performance on.  Sam’s first attempt was brief.  He was not half on when he was flung to the ground.  Half a dozen attempts, quickly repeated, were scarcely better, the last one permitting him to remain on Barney’s back nearly ten seconds, and culminating in a ludicrous fall over Barney’s head.  Sam withdrew from the ring, shaking his head dubiously and holding his side as if in pain.  The other lads followed.  Expert tumblers, they executed most amazing and side-splitting fails.  Sam recovered and came back.  Toward the last, all three made a combined attack on Barney, striving to mount him simultaneously from different slants of approach.  They were scattered and flung like chaff, sometimes falling heaped together.  Once, the two white boys, standing apart as if recovering breath, were mowed down by Sam’s flying body.

“Remember, this is a real mule,” Collins told the man with the waxed moustaches.  “If any outsiders butt in for a hack at the money, all the better.  They’ll get theirs quick.  The man don’t live who can stay on his back a minute . . . if you keep him rehearsed with the spike.  He must live in fear of the spike.  Never let him slow up on it.  Never let him forget it.  If you lay off any time for a few days, rehearse him with the spike a couple of times just before you begin again, or else he might forget it and queer the turn by ambling around with the first outside rube that mounts him.

“And just suppose some rube, all hooks of arms and legs and hands, is managing to stick on anyway, and the minute is getting near up.  Just have Sam here, or any of your three, slide in and spike him from the palm.  That’ll be good night for Mr. Rube.  You can’t lose, and the audience’ll laugh its fool head off.

“Now for the climax!  Watch!  This always brings the house down.  Get busy you two!—­Sam!  Ready!”

While the white boys threatened to mount Barney from either side and kept his attention engaged, Sam, from outside, in a sudden fit of rage and desperation, made a flying dive across the ropes and from in front locked arms and legs about Barney’s neck, tucking his own head close against Barney’s head.  And Barney reared up on his hind legs, as he had long since learned from the many palm-spikings he had received on head and neck.

“It’s a corker,” Collins announced, as Barney, on his hind legs, striking vainly with his fore, struggled about the ring.  “There’s no danger.  He’ll never fall over backwards.  He’s a mule, and he’s too wise.  Besides, even if he does, all Sam has to do is let go and fall clear.”

The turn over, Barney gladly accepted the halter and was led out of the square ring and up to the Frenchman.