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“Now, be keerful. Dan’s foxy; he’s all right when he sees you’ve got the reins, but don’t drop ’em.”

“Don’t you worry about me; I grew up with horses,” said the over-confident youth, leaping into the sleigh and gathering up the lines. “Stand aside, my lord, and let the cortege pass. Hoop-la!”

The brute gave a tearing lunge, and was out of the doorway before the old man could utter another word. Albert thrilled with pleasure as he felt the reins stiffen in his hands, and saw the traces swing slack beside the thills.

“If he keeps this up he’ll do,” he said aloud.

As he turned up at the gate Maud came gayly down the path, muffled to the eyes.

“Oh, what a nice cutter! But the horse–is he gentle?” she asked, as she climbed in.

“As a cow,” Albert replied.–“Git out o’ this, Bones!”

The main street was already filled with wood sleighs, bob-sleds filled with children, and men in light cutters, out for a race. Laughter was on the air, and the jingle-jangle of bells. The sun was dazzling in its brightness, and the gay wraps and scarfs lighted up the scene with flecks of color. Loafers on the sidewalks fired familiar phrases at the teams as they passed:

“Step up, Bones!”

“Let ‘er go, Gallagher!”

“Get there, Eli,” and the like.

But what cared the drivers? If the shouts were insolent they laid them to envy, and if they were pleasant they smiled in reply.

Albert and Maud had made two easy turns up and down the street when a man driving a span of large Black Hawk horses dashed up a side street and whirled in just before them. The man was a superb driver, and sat with the reins held carelessly but securely in his left hand, guiding the team more by his voice than by the bit.

“Hel-lo!” cried Bert; “that looks like Brann.”

“It is,” said Maud.

“Cracky! that’s a fine team–Black Hawks, both of them. I wonder if ol’ sorrel can pass ’em?”

“Oh, please don’t try!” pleaded the girl.

“Why not?”

“Because–because I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid something ‘ll happen.”

“Something is sure to happen; I’m goin’ to pass him if old Bones has any git to him.”

“It’ll make him mad.”

“Who mad? Brann?”

“Yes.”

“Well, s’pose it does, who cares?”

There were a dozen similar rigs moving up or down the street, and greetings passed from sleigh to sleigh. Everybody except Brann welcomed Albert with sincere pleasure, and exchanged rustic jokes with him. As they slowed up at the upper end of the street and began to turn, a man on the sidewalk said, confidentially:

“Say, cap’, if you handle that old rack o’ bones just right, he’ll distance anything on this road. When you want him to do his best let him have the rein; don’t pull a pound. I used to own ‘im–I know ‘im.”

The old sorrel came round “gauming,” his ugly head thrown up, his great red mouth open, his ears laid back. Brann and the young doctor of the place were turning together, a little farther up the street. The blacks, responding to their driver’s word, came down with flying hoofs, their great glossy breasts flecked with foam, their jaws champing.

“Come on, crow-bait!” yelled Brann, insultingly, as he came down past the doctor, and seemed about to pass Albert and Maud. There was hate in the glare of his eyes.

But he did not pass. The old sorrel seemed to lengthen; to the spectators his nose appeared to be glued to the glossy side of Brann’s off black.

“See them blacks trot!” shouted Albert, in ungrammatical enthusiasm.

“See that old sorrel shake himself!” yelled the loafers.

The doctor came tearing down with a spirited bay, a magnificent stepper. As he drew along so that Bert could catch a glimpse of the mare’s neck, he thrilled with delight. There was the thoroughbred’s lacing of veins; the proud fling of her knees and the swell of her neck showed that she was far from doing her best. There was a wild light in her eyes.