we never live to make a million dollars if
it wasn't the red-faced sausage man, intestines, cow's head, basket and
all, and his old horse was coming for all that was out. We blush for our
sex. It would look nice to get in the papers that we had been racing our
blue-blooded thoroughbred against a sausage butcher, wouldn't it? Our
plan was formed in an instant. Great generals form plans suddenly, and
we took out the whip and touched our horse on a raw spot, intending to
go right away from the fertilizer.

The horse seemed to smell the load behind him, and to have his pride
touched, for he snorted and let out another link. We don't know as
anyone would believe it, but the faster our beautiful and costly steed
went, the faster that homely and cheap butcher horse climbed. People by
the hundreds all along the line were watching the race. The baskets
of sausage covets were slewing around from one side of his sled to the
other, and we expected every moment one of them would flop over into our
cutter.

Matters were becoming desperate, and we gave the horse one more cut and
went the last block at a fearful rate, but the butcher was right beside
us, so one mosquito bar would have covered us, and we came out neck and
neck, the Dutchman a little ahead because his horse was unchecked, and
the crowd yelled for the butcher. We turned to go up, when the butcher
came up alongside just as a carriage of beautiful ladies were passing,
and as they turned up their noses at his load, he said:

"Dot vas a nice race, ain't it, Mister Beck?"

We could have killed him in cold blood. Not that we dislike to be
beaten. We have always been beaten. It isn't that. But we don't want
to trot horses with no delivery wagon. We are not calculated for
associating, in the horse arena, with a load of slaughter house refuse.
It is asking too much. We are willing to race with Deacon Van Schaick,
or brother Antisdel, or Elder Hyde, or Elder Gordon, or any of those
truly good men in whom there is no guile, and in whose cutters there is
no foreign matter, but as long as reason maintains her throne we shall
never go upon the track again with a butcher.

There should be a law passed making it a penal offence for a person with
a delivery wagon to tackle onto a man who drives a thoroughbred. It is
wrong, and will lead to trouble. We have not given up racing entirely,
but hereafter we shall look the avenue over very close for butchers
before we let out our four legg