Foremost of all was Patsy Rafferty, who, by doing his prettiest, had closed up the distance between himself and the car, and was now abreast of it.
Phaeton became excited, and, determined not to be beaten, lightened his car by hurriedly throwing out one of the bags of sand. Unfortunately, it struck the ground right in front of Patsy, and the next instant he stubbed his toes on it and went sprawling into the gutter.
When the Dublin women saw this, they probably took it as full confirmation of the evil designs which somebody had told them we had on their sons, and some of our boys immediately paid the penalty by receiving a few extra whacks.
As for Patsy, he soon picked himself up and renewed the race, all the more determined to win it because he thought Phaeton had tripped him purposely—which I am happy to say was not true.
As we neared the railway crossing, Jack-in-the-Box was half way up the signal-pole. Hearing the outcry, he looked down upon us, took in the situation at a glance, then descended the pole two steps at a time, seized his red flag, and ran up the track at lightning speed. He had calculated that the Pacific express would arrive at the crossing just in time to dash through some part of our procession, and as he saw it would be useless to try to stop us, with everything crowding on behind us, he went to flag the train and stop that. This he just succeeded in doing, and when my section of the procession passed that given point,—you know it is the inveterate habit of processions to pass given points,—there stood the great locomotive stock still by Jack's box, with its train behind it, and seemed to look down upon us like an astonished and interested spectator.
We swept on across the track, and as there was a straight, smooth piece of road before us, all went well till we neared the canal. There a stupid fellow, as we afterward learned, leading home a cow he had just bought, had tied her to the corner-post of the bridge by which the turnpike crossed the canal, and gone into a neighboring grocery. The cow had placed herself directly across the narrow road-way of the bridge, and there she stood contentedly chewing her cud, entirely ignorant of the fact that an important race was in progress, and that she was obstructing the track.
Phaeton saw her with horror; for if he kept on, the car would run into her—the foot-path over the bridge was too narrow for it. He threw out his anchor, which ricochetted, as an artillerist would say. That is, it would catch the ground for an instant, and then fly into the air, descend in a curve, catch again, and fly up again. At last it caught on a horse-block, stuck fast, and brought the car to a stop.
But before Phaeton could climb out, Patsy Rafferty had come up, and, whipping out his jack-knife, cut the anchor-rope in two. In an instant the machine was off again.
Phaeton's situation was desperate. There stood the stupid cow like an animated toll-gate closing the bridge, and he rushing on to destruction at the rate of a good many miles an hour, with no way to stop the machine, and a certainty of broken bones if he jumped out.
In his agony, he half rose in the car and gave a terrific yell. The cow started, saw him, and then clumsily but quickly swung herself around against the truss of the bridge that divided the carriage-way from the foot-path. But the carriage-way had been newly planked, and the planks were not yet nailed down. As the cow stepped on the ends, four or five of these planks were instantly tilted up like a trap door, while the cow sank down till she was wedged between the truss and the first sleeper or lengthwise beam (the space being not quite large enough to let her drop through); the planks of course being held in an almost perpendicular position between her body and the sleeper.