I told him not to begin before we got clear of the town, on to the big open straight road.
Now some men will go out in a cranky boat, or rush a motor car round a corner through a crowd of children without a tremor, but are frightened to death of a trotter, especially a keen one who takes hold.
Now my mares had often raced against each other and when together as a pair had racing in their minds.
They were fresh, the day cold, there had been a thaw and then a frost; the road was just right and the horses shod with new steel spikes, sharp as chisels.
I let them step along, the snow came back in a shower of balls on us, varied by a sharp sliver of ice, which cut like a knife. The horses and I were enjoying ourselves, and then I remembered my companion.
I called out “Take them now,” as the mares were squaring away racing against each other.
I only heard, “Wow—Oh” as each snowball hit him. Fortunately he was holding on to his “sacred” hat with one hand and to the side of the sleigh with the other, so he had no hand to spare to snatch a rein to upset the sleigh, he was only able to groan, “Stop, Stop!”
He scrambled out and took the photos from the safety of the side of the road, and said he preferred to walk back to the station, and the last I saw of him was with his camera in one hand holding on his sacred (in the French meaning of the word) hat with the other.