No other
man in the county drove anything faster except Squire Hopkins, and him
the deacon had not been able to throw the dust over. The deacon would
get good ones, but somehow never could he find one that the squire
didn't get a better. The squire had also in the early days beaten the
deacon in the race for a certain pretty girl he dreamed about. But the
girl and the squire had lived happily ever after and the deacon, being
a philosopher, might have forgotten the squire's superiority had it
been manifested in this one regard only. But in horses, too--that
graveled the deacon.
"How much did you give for him?" was the widow's first query, after
they had reached a stretch of road that was good going and the deacon
had let him out for a length or two.
"Well, what do you suppose? You're a judge."
"More than I would give, I'll bet a cookie."
"Not if you was as anxious as I am to show Hopkins that he can't drive
by everything on the pike."
"I thought you loved a good horse because he was a good horse," said
the widow, rather disapprovingly.
"I do, but I could love him a good deal harder if he would stay in
front of Hopkins's best.
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