“Scatter, friends!” cried Red, as he put his foot in the stirrup.  “Don’t be too proud to take to timber!”

He swung over as lightly as a trapeze performer, deftly catching his other stirrup.  The horse groaned and shivered.

“Don’t let him get his head down!  Gol-ding it!  Don’t you!” screamed Mr. Upton in wild excitement.

Red threw the bridle over the horn of the saddle.  “Go it, you devil!” cried he.  And they went.  Six feet straight in the air, first pass.  The crowd scattered, as requested.  They hurried at that.  Red gave the brute the benefit of his two hundred and a half as they touched earth, and his opponent grunted when he felt the jar of it.  They rocketted and ricochetted; they were here, they were there, they were everywhere, the buckskin squealing like a pig, and fighting with every ounce of the strength that lay in his steel strung legs; the dust rose in clouds; Red’s hat flew in no time; he was yelling like a maniac, and the crowd was yelling like more maniacs.  Now and then a glimpse of the rider’s face could be caught, transported with joy of the struggle; then the dust would roll up and hide everything.  No one was more pleased at the spectacle than the blacksmith.  He was capering in the middle of the road, waving a hand-hammer and shouting “Hold him down!  Hold him DOWN!  Why do you let him jump up like that?  If I was on that horse I’d show you!  Aw, there it is again—­Stop him! Stop him!”

At this point the buckskin made three enormous leaps for the blacksmith, as though he had understood.  The smith cast dignity to the winds and went over the nearest fence in the style that little boys, when coasting, call “stomach-whopper”—­or words to that effect—­and took his next breath two minutes later.  He might have saved the labour, as the horse wheeled on one foot, and pulled fairly for the picket fence opposite.  Red regretted the absence of herders as the sharp pickets loomed near.  It was no time for regrets.  The horse was over with but little damage—­a slight scratch, enough to rouse his temper, however, for he whaled away with both hind feet, and parts of the fence landed a hundred feet off.  Then a dash through an ancient grape arbor, and they were lost to view of the road.  Some reckless small boys scampered after, but the majority preferred to trace the progress of the conflict by the aboriginal “Yerwhoops” that came from somewhere in behind the old houses.

“There they go!” piped up a shrill voice of the small-boy brigade.  “Right through Mis’ Davisses hen coops!—­you ought to see them hens FLY!” The triumphant glee is beyond the reach of words.  Simultaneous squawking verified the remark, as well as a feminine voice, urging a violent protest, cut short by a scream of terror, and the slam of a door.  The inhabitants of “Mis’ Davisses” house instantly appeared through the front door, seeking the street.