“A give-away,” Collins’s dry voice broke in on her ecstasy.  “Letting all the audience see the hooks.  They must go up your sleeves the moment you let go.—­Try it again.  And another thing.  When you finish the turn, no chestiness.  No making out how easy it was.  Make out it was the very devil.  Show yourself weak, just about to collapse from the strain.  Give at the knees.  Make your shoulders cave in.  The ringmaster will half step forward to catch you before you faint.  That’s your cue.  Beat him to it.  Stiffen up and straighten up with an effort of will-power—­will-power’s the idea, gameness, and all that, and kiss your hands to the audience and make a weak, pitiful sort of a smile, as though your heart’s been pulled ’most out of you and you’ll have to go to the hospital, but for right then that you’re game an’ smiling and kissing your hands to the audience that’s riping the seats up and loving you.—­Get me, madam?  You, Bill, get the idea!  And see she does it.—­Now, ready!  Be a bit wistful as you look at the horses.—­That’s it!  Nobody’d guess you’d palmed the hooks and connected them.—­Straight out!—­Let her go!”

And again the thirty-six-hundredweight of horses on either side pitted its strength against the similar weight on the other side, and the seeming was that Marie was the link of woman-flesh being torn asunder.

A third and a fourth time the turn was rehearsed, and, between turns, Collins sent a man to his office, for the Del Mar telegram.

“You take her now, Bill,” he told Marie’s husband, as, telegram in hand, he returned to the problem of Michael.  “Give her half a dozen tries more.  And don’t forget, any time any jay farmer thinks he’s got a span that can pull, bet him on the side your best span can beat him.  That means advance advertising and some paper.  It’ll be worth it.  The ringmaster’ll favour you, and your span can get the first jump.  If I was young and footloose, I’d ask nothing better than to go out with your turn.”

Harris Collins, in the pauses gazing down at Michael, read Del Mar’s Seattle telegram: 

“Sell my dogs.  You know what they can do and what they are worth.  Am done with them.  Deduct the board and hold the balance until I see you.  I have the limit of a dog.  Every turn I ever pulled is put in the shade by this one.  He’s a ten strike.  Wait till you see him.”

Over to one side in the busy arena, Collins contemplated Michael.

“Del Mar was the limit himself,” he told Johnny, who held Michael by the chain.  “When he wired me to sell his dogs it meant he had a better turn, and here’s only one dog to show for it, a damned thoroughbred at that.  He says it’s the limit.  It must be, but in heaven’s name, what is its turn?  It’s never done a flip in its life, much less a double flip.  What do you think, Johnny?  Use your head.  Suggest something.”

“Maybe it can count,” Johnny advanced.