[Illustration: "_Go it, old boy!_"]

"Deacon Tubman," said the parson, as he clutched more stoutly the rim of
his tall hat, against which, as the horse tore along, the snow chips
were pelting in showers, "Deacon Tubman, do you think the pacer will
beat us?"

"Not if I can help it! not if I can help it!" yelled the deacon, in
reply, as, with something like a reinsman's skill, he lifted Jack to
another spurt. "Go it, old boy!" he shouted, encouragingly, "go along
with you, I say!" And the parson, also, carried away by the whirl of the
moment, cried, "Go along, old boy! Go along with you, I say!"

This was the very thing, and the only thing, that the huge horse, whose
blood was now fairly aflame, wanted to rally him for the final effort;
and, in response to the encouraging cries of the two behind him, he
gathered himself together for another burst of speed and put forth his
collected strength with such tremendous energy and suddenness of
movement that the little deacon, who had risen and was standing erect in
the sleigh, fell back into the arms of the parson, while the great horse
rushed over the line amid such cheers and roars of laughter as were
never heard in that village before. Nor was the horse any more the
object of public interest and remark,--I may say favoring remark,--than
the parson, who suddenly found himself the centre of a crowd of his own
parishioners, many of whom would scarcely have been expected to
participate in such a scene, but who, thawed out of their iciness by the
genial temper of the day and vastly excited over Jack's contest,
thronged upon the good man, laughing as heartily as any jolly sinner in
the crowd.