the warty red face turned and bellowed happily at Dr. Jastrow, exhaling heavy odors of garlic and wine, and two fists waved at him. “See, Meestair? Whoo! Bruco ! Cater-peel-air, meestair!”
“Yes, indeed, just so,” said Jastrow, shrinking a bit against Byron.
The noise in the piazza swelled to a general mad scream as the horses went round for the third and last time, with the surviving jockeys frantically beating their nags to make them overtake the riderless Bruco horse. They came past the finish in a shower of dirt, a maze of bobbing straining heads and flailing jockeys’ arms. The riderless horse, its eyes rolling redly, was still barely in front.
“ Bruco !” screamed the warty man, leaping a couple of feet in the air. “ Scosso ! Scosso ! Ha ha!” He turned to Jastrow with a maniacal laugh, and vividly gestured that the horse was drugged by pumping a huge imaginary hypodermic needle into his arm. “ Bravissimo ! WHOO!” He clattered down the narrow aisle to the track, ran on to the dirt, and vanished in the swarm boiling out of the seats and over the barriers. The track was full on the instant with people milling, yelling, waving arms, jumping and beating their breasts. Here and there in the mob were the bobbing plumed heads of the horses. On the track before the judges’ stand, a dozen white-shirted young men were beating an unhelmeted jockey, on his knees in the dirt, holding up both arms in a plea for mercy. They jockey’s face was welling bright blood.
“My Lord, what’s going on there?” Jastrow quavered.
“Somebody failed to doublecross,” Byron said, “or else he triplecrossed.”
“I suppose” – Jastrow put a trembling hand to his beard – “this is the part the archbishop warned us about. “Perhaps we had better leave, and –”
Byron slammed an arm across his chest. “ Not now . Sit right where you are, sir, and don’t move. You too, Natalie.”
A squad of young men, with yellow-and-green Caterpillar scarves around their necks, came driving through the mob straight for the judges’ stand. They trampled up the benches past Jastrow, led by a pallid youngster streaming blood from his forehead. Byron held two protecting arms in front of the girl and Jastrow as the bloody-faced one seized the pole. The whole squad roared, cheered, and came thundering back down the benches with the banner.
“Now!” Byron took the hands of the other two. “Come.”
The excited Sienese, as well as the tourists, were prudently making way for the triumphant Caterpillars. Moving right behind them, with one arm around the girl and another around Jastrow, Byron got through the archway into the main lower street of the town. But here the mob eddied in behind the Palio and its triumphant escort and engulfed them, crushing uphill toward the cathedral.
“Oh, Lord,” Natalie said. “We’re in for it now. Hang on to Aaron.”
“Dear me. I’m afraid I didn’t bargain for this,” gasped Jastrow, fumbling at his hat and his glasses with one free hand. The other was pinned in Byron’s grip. “My feet are scarcely touching the ground, Byron.”
“That’s okay. Don’t fight them, sir, just go along. At the first side street this jam will ease up. Take it easy -”
A convulsive, panicky surge of the crowd at this moment tore the professor out of Byron’s grasp. Behind them sounded the clatter of hoofs on stone, wild neighs and whinnies, and shouts of alarm. The crowd melted around Byron and Natalie, fleeing from a plunging horse. It was the winner, the Caterpillar animal. A brawny young man in green and yellow, his wig awry and sliding, was desperately trying to control the animal, but as it reared again, a flailing front hoof caught him full in the face. He fell bloodied to the ground, and the horse was free. It danced, reared, and screamed, plunging forward, and the crowd shrank away. As Byron pulled Natalie into a doorway out of the retreating mob, Aaron Jastrow emerged in the clear street
“Yes, indeed, just so,” said Jastrow, shrinking a bit against Byron.
The noise in the piazza swelled to a general mad scream as the horses went round for the third and last time, with the surviving jockeys frantically beating their nags to make them overtake the riderless Bruco horse. They came past the finish in a shower of dirt, a maze of bobbing straining heads and flailing jockeys’ arms. The riderless horse, its eyes rolling redly, was still barely in front.
“ Bruco !” screamed the warty man, leaping a couple of feet in the air. “ Scosso ! Scosso ! Ha ha!” He turned to Jastrow with a maniacal laugh, and vividly gestured that the horse was drugged by pumping a huge imaginary hypodermic needle into his arm. “ Bravissimo ! WHOO!” He clattered down the narrow aisle to the track, ran on to the dirt, and vanished in the swarm boiling out of the seats and over the barriers. The track was full on the instant with people milling, yelling, waving arms, jumping and beating their breasts. Here and there in the mob were the bobbing plumed heads of the horses. On the track before the judges’ stand, a dozen white-shirted young men were beating an unhelmeted jockey, on his knees in the dirt, holding up both arms in a plea for mercy. They jockey’s face was welling bright blood.
“My Lord, what’s going on there?” Jastrow quavered.
“Somebody failed to doublecross,” Byron said, “or else he triplecrossed.”
“I suppose” – Jastrow put a trembling hand to his beard – “this is the part the archbishop warned us about. “Perhaps we had better leave, and –”
Byron slammed an arm across his chest. “ Not now . Sit right where you are, sir, and don’t move. You too, Natalie.”
A squad of young men, with yellow-and-green Caterpillar scarves around their necks, came driving through the mob straight for the judges’ stand. They trampled up the benches past Jastrow, led by a pallid youngster streaming blood from his forehead. Byron held two protecting arms in front of the girl and Jastrow as the bloody-faced one seized the pole. The whole squad roared, cheered, and came thundering back down the benches with the banner.
“Now!” Byron took the hands of the other two. “Come.”
The excited Sienese, as well as the tourists, were prudently making way for the triumphant Caterpillars. Moving right behind them, with one arm around the girl and another around Jastrow, Byron got through the archway into the main lower street of the town. But here the mob eddied in behind the Palio and its triumphant escort and engulfed them, crushing uphill toward the cathedral.
“Oh, Lord,” Natalie said. “We’re in for it now. Hang on to Aaron.”
“Dear me. I’m afraid I didn’t bargain for this,” gasped Jastrow, fumbling at his hat and his glasses with one free hand. The other was pinned in Byron’s grip. “My feet are scarcely touching the ground, Byron.”
“That’s okay. Don’t fight them, sir, just go along. At the first side street this jam will ease up. Take it easy -”
A convulsive, panicky surge of the crowd at this moment tore the professor out of Byron’s grasp. Behind them sounded the clatter of hoofs on stone, wild neighs and whinnies, and shouts of alarm. The crowd melted around Byron and Natalie, fleeing from a plunging horse. It was the winner, the Caterpillar animal. A brawny young man in green and yellow, his wig awry and sliding, was desperately trying to control the animal, but as it reared again, a flailing front hoof caught him full in the face. He fell bloodied to the ground, and the horse was free. It danced, reared, and screamed, plunging forward, and the crowd shrank away. As Byron pulled Natalie into a doorway out of the retreating mob, Aaron Jastrow emerged in the clear street
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