"Five hundred dollars to any man of
your lot--or to any man in this house that can ride a real wild horse."
"Where's your horse?"
"Around the corner in a Twenty-sixth Street stable. I'll have him here
in five minutes."
"Lead him on," cried the ringmaster, but his voice was not quite so
loud.
Werther muttered to Drew:
"Here's where I hand him the lemon that'll curdle his cream," and ran
out of the box and straight around the edge of the arena. New York,
murmuring and chuckling through the vast galleries of the Garden,
applauded the little man's flying coat-tails.
He had not underestimated the time; in a little less than his five
minutes the doors at the end of the arena were thrown wide and Werther
reappeared. Behind him came two stalwarts leading between them a rangy
monster. Before the blast of lights and the murmurs of the throng the
big stallion reared and flung himself back, and the two who lead him
bore down with all their weight on the halter ropes. He literally walked
down the planks into the arena, a strange, half-comical, half-terrible
spectacle.
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