By this time several members of the school who were passing through the campus had paused and were watching the performance. Some one called out: "Ready, get set, go!" and Bassett, who had never been much of a runner, started out at a lumbering pace around the drive. Campbell immediately brought the whip down heavily upon the sorrel's back, which so surprised the horse that instead of dashing forward in pursuit of Bassett, he did what he had never been known to do before,—put his head down and made his heels rattle a vigorous protest against the whiffletree and dashboard. Shouts of laughter rose louder and louder over the campus, and dormitory windows were thrown up here and there while the occupants of the rooms thrust out their heads to get a view of what was going on.
"Get up, you bucking bronco!" yelled Campbell, and once more brought the whip down on the sorrel. By this time, consternation and terror had taken possession of old Jed; he suddenly abandoned his kicking and set out at a gallop around the driveway. Campbell stood up like a Roman charioteer and urged his steed on, but the lumbering Bassett had gained too much of a start, and although the finish was close, the so-called Whirlwind passed the steps of Gannett Hall while the sorrel was still a length or two behind. Tracey Campbell braced himself firmly and jerked back on the reins so roughly that the horse was brought to a sliding stop.
"You win," he yelled to Bassett. "I'll buy the dinner."
Attracted by the commotion, Teeny-bits had thrust up the window of his room, and old Daniel Holbrook had joined him in looking down upon the scene. At first the station master had laughed a little and said:
"Some of your friends seem to be playing a few pranks on me."
But when he heard the noise of the whip and saw the horse jump with fright and pain, his expression had changed and he had started down to the campus. Teeny-bits followed close behind him; they had reached the steps of Gannett Hall when the spectacular finish of the race occurred. Tracey Campbell, seeing the owner of the horse, leaped out of the buggy and said facetiously:
"I just borrowed this animule of yours for a minute. He's some racer, I'll say."
"I'll say to you, young man," said Daniel Holbrook, "that that isn't any way to treat a horse. I don't mind a mite having you borrow my rig, but I do mind having you abuse a dumb animal that hasn't any way to come back at you."
Two or three of the boys in the crowd tittered, but most of them were silent. They knew that the station master was right, and they were ashamed that they had joined in the laughter. But Tracey Campbell still seemed to take it as a joke; he looked at the station master with a grin and said in a tone which suggested that he was imitating:
"He's blowin' and puffin' a mite, but I guess he ain't injured none, and I reckon as how he'll pull through the crisis and amble you home if you drive real calm."