Certainly a pair of steers tipping the scales at a ton and a half each did not look like racing machines. But they proved to be that as they thundered down hill.
Had one of them fallen on the way we shrink from thinking of the result—to the two girls in the cart. The long, lingering dog that had started the trouble was left far behind. The three collegians who had come over the hill to surprise the girls, could not gain a yard in the race. As for “that redhead” who had governed the steers before they ran, he just missed the rear of the cart and he followed it down the steep grade with an abandon that was worthy of a better end.
For he couldn’t catch it; and had he been able to, what advantage would it have given him?
When a span of steers wish to run away, and decide upon running away, and really get into action, nothing but a ten-foot stone wall will stop them. And there was no wall at hand.
The great wheels bounced and the cart threatened to turn over at every revolution of the wheels; Tavia screamed intermittently; Dorothy held on grimly and hoped for the best.
The steers kept right on in a desperately grim way, their tails still stiffened. They reached the bottom of the hill and were at the very verge of the sloping bank into the shallows of the river.
A suicidal mania seemed to have gained possession of their bovine minds. They cared nothing for themselves, for the wagon, or for the passengers in that wagon. Into the river they plunged. The wabbling cart rolled after them until the water rose more than hub high.
And then the oxen halted abruptly, both lowered their noses a little, and both began to drink!
“Such excitement over an old drink of water!” gasped Tavia, and then fell completely into the hay and could not rise for laughing.
“Do—do you suppose they ran down here—like that—just to get a drink?” demanded Dorothy. “Why—why I was scared almost to death!”