the horse out. Instantly the thin flanks of the
creature tautened, he laid his tail over the dashboard, stretched his
neck, flattened his ears and settled himself close to the ground in
action that showed sinful training. William's expression developed
into one of ecstasy that was far from spiritual, and I had much ado to
keep my hat on. Presently we heard the clatter of another horse's feet
behind us, and the next moment the bay was neck and neck with Charlie
Weaver's black mare. Charlie was one of the younger goats in the
Beaverdam congregation, whose chief distinction was that he was an
outbreaking sinner and owned the fastest horse in the county.
Instantly William's whole nature changed; he was no more a minister
than the florid young man in the buggy that was whirling giddily beside
us. He tightened his reins and touched the bay with his whip. The
effect was miraculous; the horse leaped forward in a splendid burst of
speed, the mare showed signs of irritation and broke her gait, and the
two jockeys exchanged challenging glances. At that moment we rounded a
curve in the road, and in the hot dust ahead there came to view a
heavy, old-fashioned rockaway drawn slowly by a pair of sunburned
plow-horses.

"Oh, William," I gasped, "do stop! That is the Brock carriage and this
is a horse race!"

Brother Brock was a rich Methodist steward who not only owned most of
the property in Beaverdam neighborhood, but the church as well. He was
a sharp-faced man who gave you the impression that his immortal soul
had cat whiskers. He fattened his tyrannical faculties upon the
meekness of the preacher and the helplessness of a congregation largely
dependent upon him to pay the pastor's salary and the church
assessments. Any preacher who offended him was destined to be deprived
of his subscriptions. Knowing this I took an anxious, economical view
of the old rockaway heaving forward in the road ahead and vainly
implored William to slacken his speed to a moral, ministerial gait.

In another moment it was over. The mare crashed into the rockaway on
one side and the bay shattered the swingletree on the other with the
forewheel of our buggy. The old plow-horses plunged feebly, then
lowered their heads in native dejection, while the Brocks shrieked,
root and branch. Never have I seen such a look of feline ferocity upon
the human countenance as when Brother Brock scrambled down from his
seat into the road and, with his mouse-