“Seems like a lively horse,” Scott said, as he hung on for dear life while the horse jerked the sleigh along in a series of lunges over the poorly covered corduroy.
“He ain’t goin’ none yet,” the man growled; “wait till we get off this corduroy.”
At last the bumping ceased and the sleigh slid lightly over a smooth road. “Now git, if you must,” the driver said, slackening his hold on the lines. The plunging ceased instantly as the big horse stretched himself to a steady, swinging pace and shot up the road like an arrow. The snowballs from his hoofs pelted them in a shower and the zero wind cut like a knife. For a good mile the pace never slackened or faltered. From there on the road was bad and they had to go slowly but there was no more plunging. The big fellow had had his go and was satisfied.
“Gee,” Greenleaf said admiringly, “that’s some horse.”
“That’s the fastest I’ve ever traveled behind a horse,” Scott said, as he rubbed his chilled hands and face.
“The boss keeps him here in the winter,” the man said proudly; “he’s a racer.”
The praise of the horse had mellowed the surly driver and the remainder of the five miles to camp passed pleasantly enough.
To Scott the low lying, snow-covered huts of the camp were a revelation. He felt completely at a loss. Stables, bunkhouses, cookshack, office and shops; they all looked alike with the single exception of size. None of them looked like a house.
“Where’s the foreman?” Greenleaf asked.
“In the office, probably,” the man said.