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. He had not gone far before he met Baptiste coming back with his
team foaming, the roans going quietly, but the bronchos dancing, and
eager to be at it again.

'Voila! bully boy! tank the bon Dieu, Sandy; you not keel, heh? Ah!
you are one grand chevalier,' exclaimed Baptiste, hauling Sandy in and
thrusting the lines into his hands. And so they came back, the sleigh
box still dragging behind, the pintos executing fantastic figures on
their hind legs, and Sandy holding them down. The little Frenchman
struck a dramatic attitude and called out--

'Voila! What's the matter wiz Sandy, heh?'

The roar that answered set the bronchos off again plunging and kicking,
and only when Baptiste got them by the heads could they be induced to
stand long enough to allow Sandy to be proclaimed winner of the race.
Several of the lumbermen sprang into the sleigh box with Sandy and
Baptiste, among them Keefe, followed by Nelson, and the first part of