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And, with her, around and around went also Prof. Cephus Fringe, but not willingly and by no means blithely. He shed his high hat and with it all lingering essences of his dignity. One of Mittie May’s feet squashed down on the high hat and it folded up like a condensed time-card. He lost the last vestige of his vanishing authority when he lost his saxophone. The Professor did not understate the case when he had intimated that he was somewhat out of practice at equestrian exercises. Stark terror convulsed his frame; instinct of self-preservation made him careless of the language he used. Indeed, a good deal of the language he used was bounced right out of him.

Haply perhaps for him–and surely nothing else that happened was for him haply circumstanced–most of the naughty words reached no ears save those of Mittie May. There were sounds which drowned them–sounds which began with a fluttered outcry of alarm, which progressed to a great gasp of astonishment, which swelled and rippled into a titter, which grew into a vast rocking roar of unrestrained joyousness. Children shrieked, old women cackled, old men wheezed, adults guffawed, strong men rolled upon the earth in uncontrollable outbursts of thunderous mirth. As though stricken in all his members, Gumbo Rollins fell alongside his whirling Flyin’ Jinny, but failed not, even in that excess of his mounting hysteria, to see to it that the steam-driven organ continued to grind out the one tune of its repertoire. The members of the choir forgot that their mission was to sing. They were too busy laughing to sing. And high and clear above the chorus of their glad outcry rose the soprano gurglings of Ophelia Stubblefield as she leaned for support up against somebody.

You ask, Why did not Prof. Cephus Fringe fall off of Mittie May? He tried to. At first he sought only to stay on; then after a bit he sought to get off; he couldn’t. The cause for his staying on was revealed when Mittie May took the first of those mental hazards of hers. As she rose grandly into space to clear the imagined top-rail of the imagined panel and with hind heels drawn well in under her, descended and continued on her circling way, a keen-eyed spectator, all bent double though he was, alongside the ring, and beating himself in the short ribs, caught a flashing glimpse of a strong but narrow strap which bound the rider’s ankles to the saddle-girth and which, through the ordered march of the parade, had been safely hidden from view behind the ornament housings of the broad Spanish stirrups. Cump Glass had done his fiendish work well; those straps strained, but they held.

“Name of Glory!” shouted out the observer. “He done tie hisse’f on! He done tie hisse’f–” Overcome he choked.

With a great sweeping, swooping heave Mittie May made the last leap. And then at the precise second when the music stopped, the leathern thongs parted, and as the burden on her tumbled off and lay struggling in the dust, Mittie May swerved from the ring and, magically and instantaneously becoming once more Judge Priest’s staidly respectable old buggy-mare, stood waiting for Jeff Poindexter to come and lead her out of all this shrieking, whooping jam of folks back to her stable. And Jeff came. He had been there all the time. It was against his supporting frame that Ophelia had slanted limply the while she laughed.

Here the curtain is lowered for two seconds to denote the passage of two days. At its rise Jeff Poindexter and Gumbo Rollins are discovered sitting side by side on the back step of a cabin in the Plunket’s Hill neighborhood.

“An’ so they ain’t nobody seen him sence?” It is Jeff who is speaking.

“So they tells me,” answers Gumbo. “Ain’t nary soul seen hair nur hide of him frum the moment he riz out ‘en that ring an’ tuk his foot in his hand an’ marviled further. Yas, suh, the pertracted meetin’ will have to worry ‘long the best way it kin ‘thout its champion purty man. Well, sometimes it seems lak these things turns out fur the bes’. It suttin’ly would damage his lacinated feelin’s still mo’ ef he wus yere an’ heared folks all over town callin’ him the Jazzed-up Circus Rider.”

“I got a better name fur him ‘en that,” says Jeff, “Whiffletit.”

“W’ich?” asks Gumbo.

Seemingly Jeff has not heard his friend’s question. In an undertone, and as though seeking to recall the words of a given formula, he communes with himself, “Fust you baits him wid the cheese. An’ ‘en w’en he nibble the cheese, he git all swelled up an’ ‘en whilst he’s flappin’ helpless you leans over the side of the boat an jes’ natchelly laffs him to death.”

“Whut-all is you mumblin’?” demands Gumbo Rollins, puzzled by these seemingly unrelated and irrelevant mouthings. “Is you crazy?”

“Yas,” concurs Jeff, “crazy lak the king of the weazels.”