A Man in the Open. Roger Pocock
same being a nom de plume. We proceeds to the opery-house, climbs in through a little hind window, and finds a dressing-room. Affable Jones dresses up as a monk, Bull Durham claims he's rigged out already as a vice-bishop, and I'm to be a chicken, 'cause I'm dealing vintage eggs in the cotillon. All the same, I'm left there alone for hours, and it's only when they comes back with a cocktail that I'll consent to dressing up as a chicken—which in passing out through that lil' window is some crowded. We proceeds up street, me toting eggs, and practising chicken-talk, and it seems the general public is surprised.
So we comes to the Masonic Hall, which is all lights, and band, and fashionable persons rigged out in fancy dress, dancing the horse doover. I got the name from Bull, who says that the next turn is my day boo in the omlet cotillion. Seems it's all arranged, too. Affable Jones lines up the ladies on the left, the dudes on the right, all the length of the hall. Bull marches up the middle, spurs trailin' behind him, and there's me dressed as a chicken, with a basket of eggs, wondering whether this here cow-boy is the two persons I see, or only the one I can hear. Band's playing soft, Affable serves out tin spoons to the dudes, and I deals each a decorated egg, laying it careful in the bowl of the spoon, till there's only a few left over, and I'm safe along with Bull.
So far everybody seems pleased. Bull whispers in my ear, "Make for the back door, you son of a sea cook," which offends one, being true; waves an egg at the band for silence, and calls out, "Ladies and gents." From the back door I seen how all the dudes has to stand dead still for fear of dropping an egg.
"Ladies," says Bull, "has any of you seen a live mouse? On the way up among you, seems I've dropped my mouse, and it's climbing skirts for solitude."
Then there's shrieks, screams, ladies throwing themselves into the arms of them dudes, eggs dropping squash, eggs going bang, Bull throwing eggs at every man not otherwise engaged, and such a stink that all the lights goes out. I'm grabbed by the scruff of the chicken, run out through the back door, and slung on the back of a horse. Bull's yelling "Ride! Ride! Git a move on!" He's flogging the horses with his quirt, he's yelling at me: "Ride, or we'll be lynched!"
My mouth's full of feathers, chicken's coming all to pieces—can't ride—daresn't fall off. So on the whole I dug the chicken's spurs into Mr. Horse, and rode like a hurricane in a panic. All of which reminds me that the hinder parts of an imitation bird is comforting whar she bumps. Still, draw them stars across.
* * * * * *
I'm feeling better with twenty miles between me and Invicta City. The sun transpires over the eastern sky-line, the horses is taking a roll, I'm seated on the remnants of the chicken, and Bull Durham says I'm his adopted orphan. "You rode," says he, "like a pudding on a skewer, you've jolted yo' tail through yo' hat, you looks like a half-skinned fool hen, and you've torn that poor mare's mouth till she smiles from ear to ear. Yet on the whole them proceedings is cheering you up, and thar's more coming."
Looking back it seems to me that the first night's proceedings was calm. Thar was the fat German fire brigade pursuing an annual banquet across lots by moonlight, all on our way north, too, till the wagon capsized in a river.
Thar was the funeral obsequies of a pig, late deceased, with municipal honors, until we got found out.
Then we was an apparition of angels at a revival camp, only Bull's wings caught fire, and spoiled the whole allusion.
Yes, when I looks back on them radium nights entertainments along with Bull Durham, I see now what a success they was in learning me to ride. "What you need," says he, "is confidence. Got to forget mere matters of habeas corpus, and how your toes point, and whether you're looking pretty. Just trust yo' horse to pull through, so that you ain't caught in the flower of youthful innocence, and hung on the nearest telegraph pole. You still needs eclair as the French say, and you got no ung bong point, but your horse de combat is feeling encouraged to pack you seventy miles last night, and we'll be in camp by sundown."
Once I been to a theater, and seen a play. Thar's act one, with fifteen minutes hoping for act two. Thar's act after act till you just has to fill up the times between with injun war-whoops, until act five, when all the ladies and gents is shot or married. It just cayn't go on. So the aujience says "Let's go'n have a drink," and the band goes off for a drink, and the lady with the programs tells you to get to hell out of that.
It's all over. The millionaire Lord Bishop of Durham is only Bull's father-in-law. Bull's not exactly a cow-boy yet—but assists his mother, Mrs. Brooke, who is chef at a ranch. It's not exactly a stock ranch, but they raise fine pedigree hogs. Bull won't be quite popular with his mother for having gorgeous celebrations with the hundred dollars she'd give him to pay off a little debt. I'd better not come to the ranch after leading mummie's boy astray from the paths of virtue.
No, I cayn't set a saddle without giving the horse hysterics, and as for turning cow-boy, what's the matter with my taking a job as a colonel? I'd best climb off that mare, and hunt a job afoot. So long, Jesse.
There's the dust of Bull's horses way off along the road, and me settin' down by the wayside. A dog sets down in his skin, tail handy for wagging, all his possessions around him. I ain't even got no tail.
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