“Not a bad idea,” observed the foreman to Pape. “Bold, but not bad at all—this eat-ad. of beef on the hoof.” The Westerner stared at him a moment, then decided to let the surmise stand. These metropolitan cowboys scarcely would appreciate the importance of the purpose to which he meant to put the brute, even did he care to explain. Under his direction the two punchers “hung their strings” about the horns of the elect, one on either side. His own rope he neatly attached to the left hind hoof, to act as a brake in case of an attempted stampede. The small procession got under way. Although at the start their pace was no more than that of a reasonably brisk funeral procession, they attracted the attention of the West Side youngsters, to whom they appeared to have much of the interest of a circus parade. At once, as if a growth sprung from asphalt and cobblestone fields, a veritable swarm of under-fifteens surrounded the outfit. Well it was for these embryonic rooters of the ward that Polkadot disdained to use his dancing feet for anything so _gauche_ as kicks, for they banked about his rear-guard position, in order the more intimately to admire his color splotches and prancy step, and even took drag-holds upon his silken tail, as well as Pape’s stirrups, that they might not fall behind. “Taking him to a bull fight, mister?” The question was variously couched, but unanimously excited. Except for this darting, swooping, whooping escort, the early advance of Pape’s escutcheon toward Fifth Avenue was accomplished without undue excitement. At Columbus Circle, however, the roving “wall” eyes of the beef-brute sighted the green of South Meadow. Doubtless its appetite was hurting for fresh grass after the long journey on cured food, his brain confused by the blur of strange sights and sounds, his muscles aching for the Montana-wide freedom so suddenly curtailed at the gate of a cow-town shipping pen. Whether actuated by one or all of these impulses, or merely moved by inherent wildness, the red executed a flank movement that had nothing to do with steak. In terms of action he showed a desperate desire to throw off his rope shackles and bolt into Central Park. The press of vehicular traffic aided him by hampering his guard. Could they have spread out triangularly, they might have held him helpless. An attempted swerve tangled the puncher on the left in his own rope and forced him to dismount to save himself a spill. He on the right was prevented from closing in by regard for the young lives and limbs of their admirers.