Half a dozen attempts, quickly repeated, were scarcely better, the last
one permitting him to remain on Barney's back nearly ten seconds, and
culminating in a ludicrous fall over Barney's head. Sam withdrew from
the ring, shaking his head dubiously and holding his side as if in pain.
The other lads followed. Expert tumblers, they executed most amazing and
side-splitting fails. Sam recovered and came back. Toward the last, all
three made a combined attack on Barney, striving to mount him
simultaneously from different slants of approach. They were scattered
and flung like chaff, sometimes falling heaped together. Once, the two
white boys, standing apart as if recovering breath, were mowed down by
Sam's flying body.

"Remember, this is a real mule," Collins told the man with the waxed
moustaches. "If any outsiders butt in for a hack at the money, all the
better. They'll get theirs quick. The man don't live who can stay on
his back a minute . . . if you keep him rehearsed with the spike. He
must live in fear of the spike. Never let him slow up on it. Never let
him forget it. If you lay off any time for a few days, rehearse him with
the spike a couple of times just before you begin again, or else he might
forget it and queer the turn by ambling around with the first outside
rube that mounts him.

"And just suppose some rube, all hooks of arms and legs and hands, is
managing to stick on anyway, and the minute is getting near up. Just
have Sam here, or any of your three, slide in and spike him from the
palm. That'll be good night for Mr. Rube. You can't lose, and the
audience'll laugh its fool head off.

"Now for the climax! Watch! This always brings the house down. Get
busy you two!--Sam! Ready!"

While the white boys threatened to mount Barney from either side and kept
his attention engaged, Sam, from outside, in a sudden fit of rage and
desperation, made a flying dive across the ropes and from in front locked
arms and legs about Barney's neck, tucking his own head close against
Barney's head. And Barney reared up on his hind legs, as he had long
since learned from the many palm-spikings he had received on head and
neck.

"It's a corker," Collins announced, as Barney, on his hind legs, striking
vainly with his fore, struggled about the ring. "There's no danger.
He'll never fall over backwards. He's a mule, and he's too wise.
Besides, even if he does, all Sam has to do is let go and fall clear."