308 TALES OF THE TURF. 



lines, quarter boots on his steed, blue glasses and a know- 

 ing confident look. He sat straight back, his arms at 

 length and the lines taut. He had that bantering, tan- 

 talizing, aggravating if-I'd-only-let-loose-of-these-lines- 

 where-would-you-be air, as he glanced at Jib and me. 

 The Jib moved a little faster and I took him gently back 

 as my rival loosened on his reins and asked his horse to 

 step along. I allowed him to open up about a length of 

 daylight, and just when the other fellow thought it was 

 "too easy," I slacked away to the Jib — whiz, phew, a clat- 

 ter of feet on the hard road like the roll beat of a snare 

 drum, a whiff of wind and the Jib was gone. I com- 

 menced gasping for breath as the wind carried away my 

 hat and took the few remaining feeble hairs from the top 

 of my head, the wagon meantime swishing from side to 

 side, the sparks flying, and I began to realize that I was 

 riding on a streak of lightning, or rather behind one. 

 Then I weakened — I've said a thousand times that I could 

 ride as fast as a horse could go — but the Jib taught me I 

 was mistaken. I spoke to him, taking him back with a 

 slight tension, and the Jib, back on a trotting jog, looked 

 around as much as to say, "what do you think of that?" 

 We turned and presently met my rival road driver. He 

 was a good fellow at heart, honest enough not to go into 

 the "excuse column" when he was beaten. He held up 

 both hands and we stopped. "For God, mister, what is 

 that you are driving ? Why, this horse I have has a rec- 

 ord of 2 : 12, and I didn't think a man could buy, beg, bor- 

 row, or steal a horse he couldn't beat, but you went past 

 me like the Empire State Express would pass a funeral ?" 

 I told him Flying Jib and jogged home. 



