CHUNKY'S NEW IDEA
Three of the ponies, they found, had been knocked down and so severely
shocked that they were only just beginning to regain consciousness.
"Why didn't you tell us?" demanded Ned, turning on Stacy savagely.
"You wouldn't let me. Maybe next time I've got an idea, you'll stop
and listen."
Kris Kringle's face wore a broad grin.
"Master Stacy is right. He tried hard enough to tell us," he said.
Chunky was humming blithely as the party set out next morning. He was
pretty well satisfied with himself, for had he not been through a
prairie fire, knocked a savage Apache off his horse, saved himself and
his companions, besides having just escaped from being struck by
lightning? Stacy swelled out his chest and held his chin a little bit
higher than usual.
"Chunky's got a swelled head," said Ned, nodding in the direction of
the fat boy.
"Swelled chest, you mean," laughed Walter. "Nobody has a better right.
Chunky isn't half as big a fool as he'd have everybody believe. When
we think we are having lots of fun with him he's really having sport
with us. And those Indians--say, Ned, do you think they will bother
us any more?"
"Ask Chunky," retorted Ned. "He's the oracle of the party."
"I will," answered Walter, motioning for Stacy to join them, which the
latter did leisurely. "We want to know if you think we've seen the
last of the Apaches? Will they bother us any more?"
The fat boy consulted the sky thoughtfully.
"I think there's some of them around now," he replied.
"What?"
Stacy nodded wisely.
"Santa Claus ought to have shot them."
"Why, you cold-blooded savage!" scoffed Ned. "The idea!"
"You'll see. I'd have done it, myself, if I'd had my gun," declared
Stacy bravely.
"Good thing for you that your gun was in camp, instead of in your
holster."
"Yes; I'd have lost the gun when the pony went down. Poor pony! Say,
Walt," he murmured, leaning over toward his companion.
"Well, out with it!"
"This pony of Santa Claus's can jump further than a kangaroo."
"Ever see a kangaroo jump?" sneered Ned.
"No; but I've seen you try to. I'll show you, Walt, when we get a
chance to go out and have a contest."
"That would be good sport, wouldn't it, Ned?"
"What?"
"A jumping contest!"
"If we didn't break our necks."
"Can't break a Pony Rider Boy's neck. They're too tough," laughed
Walter, to which sentiment, Stacy Brown agreed with a series of
emphatic nods.
"Say, Tad," called Walter, "what do you say to our jumping our ponies
some time to-day?"
Tad grinned appreciatively.
"If the stock isn't too tired when we make camp, I think it would be
great fun. We haven't had any real jumping contests in a long time."
"Wish we had our stallions here, Tad."
"They're better off at home, Chunky. Altogether too valuable horses
for this kind of work. I'll speak to the guide."
"Well, what is it, young man?" smiled Kris Kringle.
"If you can find a level place for our camp we want to have a contest
this afternoon. Professor, will you join us?"
"What kind of a contest?"
"Jumping."
"No, thank you."
"We will camp in the foothills of the Black range. You will find
plenty of level ground there for your purpose," said the guide.
In order that they might have more time for their games, an early halt
was called. The first work was to pitch the camp, the ponies being
allowed to graze and rest in the meantime, after which the lads
started out on a broad, open plain for their sport.
Their shouts of merriment drifted back to the camp where Kris Kringle
and Professor Zepplin were setting things to rights and preparing an
early supper, the sun still being some hours high.
"That's a great bunch of boys, Professor."
"Great for getting into difficulties."
"And for getting out of them."
"I'll put them against any other four lads in the world for hunting
out trouble," laughed the Professor.
The result of the afternoon's sport was a total of several spills and
numerous black and blue spots on the bodies of the Pony Rider Boys.
Stacy Brown on Kris Kringle's pony, carried off the honors, having
taken a higher jump than did any of his companions. Then Stacy did it
again, after the others had tried--and failed to equal the record.
The games being finished, Tad and Walter rode off to get a closer view
of some peculiar rock formations that they had discovered in the high
distance, while Ned and Chunky started slowly for the camp.
The table had been set out in front of the tents when the fat boy and
his companion came in sight of the camp.
"Whew! but I'm hungry!" announced Stacy Brown.
"But you didn't think of it until you saw the table set, did you?"
"It wasn't the table, it was the shaking up I got back there that made
me feel full of emptiness."
"Huh!"
"I've got an idea, Ned."
"For goodness' sake, keep it to yourself, then. When you have an idea
it spells trouble for everybody else around you."
"Bet you I can."
"Can what?" snorted Ned.
"Bet you I can jump the dinner table and you can't."
"Bet you can't."
"Bet I can, and without even knocking a fly off the milk pitcher."
"Go on, you! You try it first, and, if you don't make it, you lose. I
don't have to try it if I don't want to," agreed Ned, with rare
prudence.
Chunky was fairly hugging himself with glee, but he took good care
that Ned Rector did not observe his satisfaction.
"If you don't you're a tenderfoot," taunted Stacy.
"I'll show you who's the tenderfoot. You go ahead and bolt the dinner,
table and all, if you dare. Now, then!"
Stacy gathered up his reins. There was mischief in his eyes, which
were fixed on the table, neatly set for the evening meal.
"You start right after me. They'll be surprised to see a procession of
ponies going over the table, won't they?"
"Somebody'll be surprised. May not be the Professor and Santa Claus,
though," growled Ned.
Stacy had his own ideas on this question, but he did not confide them
to his companion.
The fat boy clucked to his pony, and the little animal started off. As
they moved along, Stacy used the persuasive spurs resulting in a
sudden burst of speed.
"Come on!" he shouted.
He heard Ned's pony pursuing him.
"Hi-yi-yi-y-e-o-w!" howled the shrill voice of the fat boy.
Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle were sitting at opposite ends of
the table, with elbows leaning on it, engaged in earnest conversation.
There had been so much yelling out on the plain ever since the boys
left camp that the older men gave no heed to this new shout--did not
even turn their eyes in the direction whence Stacy Brown and his pony
were sweeping down on them at break-neck speed.
Suddenly the two men started back with a sudden exclamation, as a
shadow fell athwart the table and a dark form hurled itself through
the air, while a shrill, "w-h-o-o-p-e-e!" sounded right over their
heads.
The fat boy cleared the table without so much as disturbing the fly to
which he had referred when making the arrangement.
Kris Kringle's face wore an expansive grin as he discovered the cause
of the interruption. But, Professor Zepplin's face reflected no such
emotion. He was angry. He started to rise, when a second shadow fell
across the table.
Ned Rector, not to be outdone by his fat little friend, pursed his
lips tightly, driving his broncho at the dinner table and pressing in
the spurs so hard, that the pony grunted with anger.
Up went the broncho in a graceful curving leap.
But the pony or its rider had not calculated the distance properly.
Both rear hoofs went through the table, whisking it off the ground
from before the astonished eyes of Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle.
Both men drew back so violently that they toppled over backwards.
'Mid the crashing of dishes and the sound of breaking wood, the dinner
table shot up into the air, while the pony ploughed the ground with
its nose.
Ned Rector struck the ground some distance farther on; he slid on his
face for several feet skinning his nose, and filling mouth, eyes and
nose with dirt.
Then dishes and pieces of table began to rain down on them in a
perfect shower. A can of condensed milk emptied itself on the head of
Professor Zepplin, while a hot biscuit lodged inside the collar of
Santa Claus's shirt.
"Wow! Oh, wow!" howled the fat boy, falling off his pony in the excess
of his merriment and rolling on the ground.