Behind the bells was the squire in his sleigh drawn by
his fastest stepper, and he was alone, as the deacon was not. The
widow weighed one hundred and sixty pounds, net--which is weighting a
horse in a race rather more than the law allows.
But the deacon never thought of that. Forgetting everything except his
cherished ambition, he braced himself for the contest, took a twist
hold on the lines, sent a sharp, quick call to his horse, and let him
out for all that was in him. The squire followed suit and the deacon.
The road was wide and the snow was worn down smooth. The track
couldn't have been in better condition. The Hopkins colors were not
five rods behind the Hawkins colors as they got away. For half a mile
it was nip and tuck, the deacon encouraging his horse and the widow
encouraging the deacon, and then the squire began creeping up. The
deacon's horse was a good one, but he was not accustomed to hauling
freight in a race. A half-mile of it was as much as he could stand,
and he weakened under the strain.
Not handicapped, the squire's horse forged ahead, and as his nose
pushed up to the dashboard of the deacon's sleigh, that good man
groaned in agonized disappointment and bitterness of spirit.
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