them such grandeur of appearance and action, and put such an eaglelike
spirit between their ribs, so that, quitting the plodding motions of the
ox, they can fly like that noble bird and come sweeping down the course
as on wings of the wind.

It was not my fault, nor the deacon's, nor the parson's, either, please
remember, then, that awkward, shuffling, homely-looking Old Jack was
thus suddenly transformed by the royalty of blood, of pride and of speed
given him by his Creator from what he ordinarily was into a magnificent
spectacle of energetic velocity.

With muzzle lifted well up, tail erect, the few hairs in it streaming
straight behind, one ear pricked forward and the other turned sharply
back, the great horse swept grandly along at a pace that was rapidly
bringing him even with the rear line of the flying group. And yet so
little was the pace to him that he fairly gamboled in playfulness as he
went slashing along, until the deacon verily began to fear that the
honest old chap would break through all the bounds of propriety and send
his heels anticly through his treasured dashboard. Indeed, the spectacle
that the huge horse presented was so magnificent and his action so free,
spirited and playful, as he came sweeping onward that the cheers, such
as "Good heavens! see the deacon's old horse!" "Look at him! look at
him!" "What a stride!" ran ahead of him; and old Bill Sykes, a trainer
in his day, but now a hanger-on at the village tavern, or that section
of it known as the bar, wiped his watery eyes with his tremulous fist,
as he saw Jack come swinging down, and, as he swept past, with his open
gait, powerful stroke and stifles playing well out, brought his hand
down with a mighty slap against his thigh, and said: "I'll be blowed if
he isn't a regular old timer!"