The deacon shivered as he thought of it,
and urged his horse to greater speed. The squire, down the lane, saw
him whizzing along and accepted it profanely as an exhibition for his
especial benefit. The deacon now had forgotten the squire as he had
only so shortly before forgotten the widow. Two hundred yards from the
drift into which she had jumped there was a turn in the road, where
some trees shut off the sight, and the deacon's anxiety increased
momentarily until he reached this point. From here he could see ahead,
and down there in the middle of the road stood the widow waving her
shawl as a banner of triumph, though she could only guess at results.
The deacon came on with a rush, and pulled up alongside of her in a
condition of nervousness he didn't think possible to him.
"Hooray! hooray!" shouted the widow, tossing her shawl into the air.
"You beat him. I know you did. Didn't you? I saw you pulling ahead at
the turn yonder. Where is he and his old plug?"
"Oh, bother take him and his horse and the race and everything. Are
you hurt?" gasped the deacon, jumping out, but mindful to keep the
lines in his hand.
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