rowth. 'Allons,
mes enfants! Courage! vite, vite!' cries their driver, and nobly do the
pintos respond. Regardless of bushes and brush heaps, they tear their
way through; but, as they emerge, the hind bob-sleigh catches a root,
and, with a crash, the sleigh is hurled high in the air. Baptiste's
cries ring out high and shrill as ever, encouraging his team, and never
cease till, with a plunge and a scramble, they clear the brush heap
lying at the mouth of the ravine, and are out on the ice on the river,
with Baptiste standing on the front bob, the box trailing behind, and
Sandy nowhere to be seen.

Three hundred yards of the course remain. The bays, perfectly handled,
have gained at the bridge and in the descent to the ice, and are leading
the citizens' team by half a dozen sleigh lengths. Behind both comes
Baptiste. It is now or never for the pintos. The rattle of the trailing
box, together with the wild yelling of the crowd rushing down the bank,
excites the bronchos to madness, and, taking the bits in their teeth,
they do their first free running that day. Past the citizens' team like
a whirlwind they dash, clear the intervening space, and gain the flanks
of the bays. Can the bays hold them? Over them leans their driver,
plying for the first time the hissing lash. Only fifty yards more. The
miners begin to yell. But Baptiste, waving his lines high in one hand
seizes his tuque with the other, whirls it about his head and flings it
with a fiercer yell than ever at the bronchos. Like the bursting of a
hurricane the pintos leap forward, and with a splendid rush cross the
scratch, winners by their own length.

There was a wild quarter of an hour. The shantymen had torn off their
coats and were waving them wildly and tossing them high, while the
ranchers added to the uproar by emptying their revolvers into the air in
a way that made one nervous.

When the crowd was somewhat quieted Sandy's stiff figure appeared,
slowly making towards them. A dozen lumbermen ran to him, eagerly
inquiring if he were hurt. But Sandy could only curse the little
Frenchman for losing the race.

'Lost! Why, man, we've won it!' shouted a voice, at which Sandy's rage
vanished, and he allowed himself to be carried in upon the shoulders of
his admirers.

'Where's the lad?' was his first question.

The bronchos are off with him. He's down at the rapids like enough.'

'Let me go,' shouted Sandy, setting off at a run in the track of the
sleigh. H