As he sauntered through
the dust toward the grand stand, Helen could not fail to see how
his vanity sunned itself in the applause that met his
performance. His equipment was perfect to the least detail. The
reflection from a lady's looking-glass was no brighter than the
silver spurs he jingled on his sprightly heels. Strikingly
handsome in a dark, sinister way, one would say at first sight,
and later would chafe at the justice of a verdict not to be
denied.
Ned Bannister rose from his seat beside Helen. "Wish me luck," he
said, with his gay smile.
"I wish you all the luck you deserve," she answered.
"Oh, wish me more than that if y'u want me to win."
"I didn't say I wanted you to win. You take the most
unaccountable things for granted."
"I've a good mind to win, then, just to spite y'u," he laughed.
"As if you could," she mocked; but her voice took a softer
intonation as she called after him in a low murmur: "Be careful,
please."
His white teeth flashed a smile of reassurance at her. "I've
never been killed yet."
"Ned Bannister on Steamboat," sang out the megaphone man.
"I'm ce'tainly in luck. Steamboat's the worst hawss on the
range," he told himself, as he strode down the grand stand to
enter the arena.
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