“Wonder what time it is now,” George remarked.
“I dunno. Must be five o’clock; feels that way.”
“This is a mighty long mile!”
“Sure is. It’s going to be a close shave.”
“Well, I guess they’ll make it, all right,” said George, hopefully.
“Will, if Jenny holds out.”
Jenny was standing straddled and trembly, her long ears lax and her head hanging. Her rider scarcely could budge her, between hauls. But the truck was empty, her rope had been hooked on to the rear end, the truck was tipped aside to let Jimmie Muldoon by, it was tipped back upon the track, her rider kicked her in the ribs, and she groaned and started.
“Give that boy a pair of spurs, somebody,” called a voice from the crowd. Jenny broke from her shamble into a gallop, and went laboring down track. Jimmie Muldoon’s nag stood heaving—near spent, himself.
The men snatched the rails off. Working fast—“Down! Down!”—they bared the truck and end o’ track reached out, for the eight-mile stake.
“Tip her! Tip her!” For the truck was empty and Jenny’s truck was nearing.