As he neared the arch, this time, the lad half rose in his stirrups.  He knew where to look for the ring now.  Leaning slightly forward he let the point of the peg tilt ever so little.  It went through the ring, tearing it from its slender fastening and carrying it away.

Loud shouts of approval greeted his achievement.

Once more he raced down the lane, this time at so fast a clip that the faces of the spectators who lined the course were a mere blur in his eyes.

He felt the slight jar and heard the click as the ring slipped over the tilting peg.

“Two,” announced the scorer.

He missed the next one.  Then the others took their turn.  Only one of these succeeded in scoring.  He was one of the Mexicans who made such a brave show of color in raiment and saddle cloth.

“That gives the señor and the boy three apiece.  Each has one turn left.  The others will fall out.  If neither scores in his turn, both will be ruled out and the others will compete for the prize,” announced the scorer.

The Mexican smiled a supercilious smile, as much as to say, “The idea of a long-legged, freckle-faced boy defeating me!” The Mexican was an expert at the game of tilting as it was practised on the desert.

The man took the first turn.  He sat quietly on his pony a moment before starting, placing the lance at just the proper angle—­ then galloped at the mark.  He, too, rose in his stirrups.  The spectators were silent.

The ring just missed being impaled on the tilting peg, slipping along the pole half way then bounding up into the air.

The spectators groaned.  The Mexican had lost.

Now it was Tad’s turn.

He rode as if it were an everyday occurrence with him to tilt, only he went at it with a rash that fairly took their breath away.

Just as he was about to drive at the ring, some one uttered a wild yell and a sombrero hurled from the crowd, struck Tad fairly across the eyes.

Of course he lost, and, for a moment, he could not see a thing.  He pulled his pony to a quick stop and sat rubbing and blinking his smarting eyes.

A howl of disapproval went up from the spectators.  None seemed to know whether the act had been inspired by enthusiasm or malice.  Tad was convinced that it was the latter.  His face was flushed, but the lad made no comment.

“You are entitled to another tilt,” called the scorer.

To this the Mexican objected loudly.

“Under the circumstances, as my opponent objects, and as we all wish to prevent hard feelings, why not give him a chance as well?  If he wins I shall be satisfied.”

A shout of approval greeted Tad’s suggestion.  This was the real sportsman-like spirit, and it appealed to them.

The proposition was agreed to.  But again the Mexican lost.

“If the young man is interfered with this time, I shall award the prize to him and end the tournament,” warned the scorer.