Now he did all he could to urge the black horse onward. There seemed a magic persuasion about his voice, for the animal actually appeared to fling off much of its lameness and shoot ahead with fresh fire and speed.
Up the rise they went. The crest was reached and, ahead in the valley, Merry saw Kilmerville.
Anxiously he turned his eyes in the direction of the trailing smoke that rose against the sky.
“It’s too near!” came through his teeth. “I’ll lose at the last minute! It is a howling shame!”
For the twentieth time his hand patted the sweat-stained neck and his voice poured encouragement into those backward-tilted ears.
“You’ve done a fine job, my gallant boy. Faster—a little faster, noble fellow! I’ll not forget this ride—I’ll not forget you! If I had the money I’d buy you and take care of you the rest of your life for this. Get me there in time to catch that train, my boy! On, on! That’s the stuff! Now you are doing it! Good boy—fine boy!”
It was wonderful how that injured animal tore down the road toward the little collection of houses huddled at the railroad crossing. Frank felt himself thrill with the excitement of it all.
The horse’s sides were heaving and falling, while its breath came puffing from its nostrils like steam from an exhaust pipe.
That line of smoke was coming nearer and nearer. The whistle of the locomotive sounded like a taunting yell of derision.
“Lost the race!” grated Frank.