e had Jean Paul's
legs crossed anything livelier than one of the gymnasium "side horses."
Now, however, the cat was about to escape from the bag, for Robin Adair,
flinging decorum and heels behind him, set forth on a mad gallop to
overhaul Roy, who had elected to set the pace for the others. Whinnying,
prancing, cavorting, away Roy tore in the lead, Robin Adair hot-foot
upon him, Jean Paul striving manfully to keep his pitching seat, which
he felt to out-pitch any deck ever designed by man. In about two minutes
the pair were a hundred yards in the lead, Jean's cap had sailed airily
from his head, and after flaunting into Silver Star's face, had roosted
upon a near-by shrub. Jean himself promptly decided that reins were a
delusion and a snare (Robin's mouth _was_ hard) and let them go to grasp
the pommel of his Mexican saddle. But even that failed to steady him in
that outrageous saddle, nor were stirrups the least use in the world;
his feet were designed to stick to a pitching deck, not those senseless
things. In a trice both were "sailing free" and--so was Jean. As Robin's
hind legs flew up Jean pitched forward to bestride the horse's neck; as
he bounded forward Jean rose in the air to resume his seat where a
horse's crupper usually rests.

Oh it was one electrifying performance and not a single move of it was
lost upon his audience which promptly gave way to hoots and yells of
diabolical glee, at least the masculine portion of it did, while Polly
and Peggy, though almost reduced to hysterics at the absurd spectacle,
implored them to "stop yelling like Comanches and _do_ something."

"_Aren't_ we doing something? Aren't we encouraging him and helping on a
good show?" "Oh, get onto that hike!" "Gee whiz, Commodore, if you jibe
over like that you'll go by the board." "Put your tiller hard a-port."
"Haul in on your jib-sheet," "Lash yourself to the main-mast or you'll
drop off astern," were some of the encouraging words of advice which
rattled about Jean's assailed ears, as the space grew momentarily wider
between him and his friends, those same friends wilfully holding in
their mounts to revel in "the show."

But Jean's patience and endurance were both failing. He could have slain
Robin Adair, and he was confident that his spine would presently shoot
through the crown of his head. So flinging pride to the four winds, he
shouted:

"Hi, come on here one of you yelling chumps, this craft's
steering-gear's out of commiss