filled his lungs and exhilarated him like champagne; he set spur to the
gaunt, bony mare, and, with a flourish of his hand to the peaked roof of
the Nautilus Bank, dashed off at a speed of not less than four miles an
hour--for it was anything but an Arabian courser which Lynde had hired
of honest Deacon Twombly. She was not a handsome animal either--yellow
in tint and of the texture of an ancestral hair-trunk, with a plebeian
head, and mysterious developments of muscle on the hind legs. She was
not a horse for fancy riding; but she had her good points--she had a
great many points of one kind and another--among which was her perfect
adaptability to rough country roads and the sort of work now required of
her.

"Mary ain't what you'd call a racer," Deacon Twombly had remarked while
the negotiations were pending; "I don't say she is, but she's easy on
the back."

This statement was speedily verified. At the end of two miles Mary
stopped short and began backing, deliberately and systematically, as if
to slow music in a circus. Recovering from the surprise of the halt,
which had taken him wholly unawares, Lynde gathered the slackened reins
firmly in his hand and pressed his spurs to the mare's flanks, with no
other effect than slightly to accelerate the backward movement.

Perhaps nothing gives you so acute a sense of helplessness as to have a
horse back with you, under the saddle or between shafts. The reins lie
limp in your hands, as if detached from the animal; it is impossible to
check him or force him forward; to turn him around is to confess
yourself conquered; to descend and take him by the head is an act of
pusillanimity. Of course there is only one thing to be done; but if you
know what that is you possess a singular advantage over your fellow-