“Thanks; you are kind,” replied March, smiling, “but I love freedom too well to part with it yet awhile.”
“Mais, monsieur,” cried Gibault, pushing forward, pulling off his cap, and making a low bow; “if you vants yonger blod, an’ also ver’ goot blod, here am von!”
The trader laughed, and was about to reply, when a sudden burst of laughter and the sound of noisy voices in the yard interrupted him. Presently two of the men belonging to the establishment cantered out of the square, followed by all the men, women, and children of the place, amounting probably to between twenty and thirty souls. “A race! a race!” shouted the foremost.
“Hallo! Dupont, what’s to do?” inquired McLeod as the two horsemen came up.
“Please, monsieur, Lincoln have bet me von gun dat hims horse go more queek dan mine—so we try.”
“Yes, so we shall, I guess,” added the man named Lincoln, whose speech told that he was a Yankee.
“Go it, stranger; I calc’late you’ll do him slick,” cried Waller patronisingly, for his heart warmed towards his countryman.
“Ah! non. Go home; put your horse to bed,” cried Gibault, glancing at the Yankee’s steed in contempt. “Dis is de von as vill do it more slicker by far.”
“Well, well; clear the course; we shall soon see,” cried McLeod. “Now then—here’s the word—one, two—away!”
At the last word the riders’ whips cracked, and the horses sprang forward at a furious gallop. Both of them were good spirited animals, and during the first part of the race it could not be said that either had the advantage. They ran neck and neck together.