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"Some years since" said Thackeray in a public speech, "when I was younger, and used to frequent jolly assemblies, I wrote a Bacchanalian song to be chanted after dinner;" and a contemporary record has preserved a note of "the radiant gratification of his face whilst Horace Mayhew sang The Mahogany Tree, perhaps the finest and most soul-stirring of Thackeray's social songs." After his coat, Bob ripped off his flannel shirt and tore it down a seam. Then, with the greatest care, he began to unravel the threads that made up the fabric. The loose threads would burn when the cloth itself would only go out. Before he had a pile of threads that he felt would be sufficient for his purpose, his fingers ached and his nails were bleeding. So Jerry had not come back. It did not surprise Bob much, but it meant that Jerry had now openly allied himself with the other faction. The fight was to be in the open, from now on. Coming back to himself, he asked: “Where’s Mr. Taylor then?”.

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“I understood, Bob, how you felt. That is, all but once or twice when—Oh, but what’s the use? Of course I forgive you!” When they had shaken hands warmly the conference had a chance to proceed. O’Day took up the narrative where he had left off. “Do you think—” began the other boy. “This cup Marie Antoinette drank from, and this vase belonged to the Bonapartes. This flagon is from an English royal palace of the sixteenth century.” Bob kept quiet. They tied his arms to his[196] sides with the lasso and then one of the men went over to the pony Bob had ridden and, putting a revolver to its head, fired. Bob realized that no matter how mean a citizen a cowboy might be, he would not let an animal suffer. The shot which had dismounted him had hit the pony in one of the hind legs and had broken it..