The
next race resulted the same, and all day long we never won a race, and
the Indians took our money and put it in their pants and never smiled.
The old showman we had befriended seemed crushed.
[Illustration: The Pony Was Off Like a Rabbit.]
When our money was nearly all gone to the confounded Indians, and the
sun was going down, he went up to pa and said: "Uncle, what does this
all mean? I thought your horses could run."
Pa said: "Damfino, I never was no horse racer, nohow."
When our money was all gone, and our horses were nearly dead from
fatigue, the managers all got together in the big tent for a
consultation on finances, and it was the saddest sight I ever saw. Pa
tried to be cheerful, and he said: "Well, we will give the evening
performance, and when the Indians are all in the tent we can turn out
the lights and turn the boys loose on them, and maybe they will find
some of the money in their breech clouts."
"You don't mean to rob them, do you?" said the boss canvasman, and pa
said: "No, no; far from it. We will borrow it of them. It is no harm to
borrow from an Indian."
Just then the treasurer came in with an empty tin box he had carried the
money out in, and he said there would be no use of having an evening
performance, 'cause the Indians had taken their ponies and squaws and
money and gone towards the setting sun, and pa said: "Where is that old
showman?" and the treasurer said: "He has gone with them.
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