But not the slightest disrespect had been
intended, and to leave the table without making myself known was not
to be thought of. I wanted the pleasure, too, of telling those men
that I knew the gait of a pacer very well--that not in the least did I
deserve their pity. My face was burning and my voice unnatural when I
threw the bomb!
I said, "The horse you are speaking of I know very well. He is mine,
and I ride him, and I thank you very much for the nice things you have
just said about him!" Well, there was a sudden change of scene at that
table--a dropping of knives and forks and various other things, and I
became conscious of eyes--thousands of eyes--staring straight at me,
as I watched my bronco friend at the end of the table. The man had
opened his eyes wide, and almost gasped "Gee-rew-s'lum!"--then utterly
collapsed. He sat back in his chair gazing at me in a helpless,
bewildered way that was disconcerting, so I told him a number of
things about Rollo--how Faye had taken him to Helena during race week
and Lafferty, a professional jockey of Bozeman, had tested his speed,
and had passed a 2:30 trotter with him one morning. The men knew
Lafferty, of course. There was a queer coincidence connected with him
and Rollo. The horse that he was driving at the races was a pacer
named Rolla, while my horse, also a pacer, was named Rollo.
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