McWilliams was setting a pace it would take a rare expert to
equal. He was a trick rider, and all the spectacular feats that
appealed to the onlooker were his. While his horse was wildly
pitching, he drank a bottle of pop and tossed the bottle away.
With the reins in his teeth he slipped off his coat and vest, and
concluded a splendid exhibition of skill by riding with his feet
out of the stirrups. He had been smoking a cigar when he mounted.
Except while he had been drinking the pop it had been in his
mouth from beginning to end, and, after he had vaulted from the
pony's back, he deliberately puffed a long smoke-spiral into the
air, to show that his cigar was still alight. No previous rider
had earned so spontaneous a burst of applause. "He's ce'tainly a
pure when it comes to riding," acknowledged Bannister. "I look to
see him get either first or second."
"Whom do you think is his most dangerous rival?" Helen asked.
"My cousin is a straight-up rider, too. He's more graceful than
Mac, I think, but not quite so good on tricks. It will be nip and
tuck."
"How about your cousin's cousin?" she asked, with bold irony.
"He hopes he won't have to take the dust," was his laughing
answer.
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