She was going a fifty shot but in a moment we were lapping upon
her hind wheel. Dean threw a startled glance over his shoulder.
Then he shouted to the mare. She quickened her pace a little but
we kept our position. Uncle Eb was leaning over the dasher his
white locks flying. He had something up his sleeve, as they say,
and was not yet ready to use it. Then Dean began to shear over to
cut us off- a nasty trick of the low horseman. I saw Uncle Eb
glance at the ditch ahead. I knew what was coining and took a firm
hold of the seat. The ditch was a bit rough, but Uncle Eb had no
lack of courage. He turned the horse's head, let up on the reins and
whistled. I have never felt such a thrill as then. Our horse leaped
into the deep grass running like a wild deer.
'Hi there! hi there!' Uncle Eb shouted, bouncing in his seat, as we
went over stones and hummocks going like the wind.
'Go, ye brown devil!' he yelled, his hat flying off as he shook the
reins.
The mare lost her stride; we flashed by and came up into the road.
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