FUST HEAT.
The hosses both cum up tew the skore in the immejiate visinity ov each uther, and got the wurd tew go, the fust time.
The gra mare waz druv bi “Dave Larkin,” and the hoss was handled bi “Ligh Turner.”
Tha trotted sublimely, az cluss az the Siamese twins; the mare with her hed hi up and her noze full ov winde; the hoss waz stretched out tite, like a chalk line; tha passed the haf mile pole simultaneously, time, 2 minnits.
Now the kontest becum exsiting, “Dave” hollered, and 461 “Ligh” yelled—on tha kum, the mare gru higher, and the hoss gru longer—tha make the last turn tew onst—tha look like a dubble team—the exsitement grows more intensely—the crowd sways to and fro—the ox cart trembles—tha cum! tha cum! sich shouting, sich yelling, sich swearing, sich chawing terbacker, waz never herd before; the mare iz ahed!—no, the hoss iz ahed! ’tis even, ’tis a ded hete, tha pass the ox kart—the hoss wins bi 3 quarters ov an inch, time 4 minnits lacking 2 seckunds.