boys, Dab strained at his task as bravely as when he had stood at the
tiller of "The Swallow" in the storm.

There was no such thing as stopping those ponies.

And now, as they whirled along, even Dabney's face paled a little.

"I must reach the bridge before he does: he's just stupid enough to keep
right on."

It was very "stupid," indeed, for the driver of that one-horse
"truck-wagon" to try and reach the little narrow unrailed bridge first.
It was an old, used-up sort of a bridge, at best.

Dab loosened the reins a little, but could not use his whip.

"Why can't he stop!"

It was a moment of breathless anxiety, but the wagoner kept stolidly on.
There would be barely room to pass him on the road itself; none at all
on the narrow bridge.

The ponies did it.

They seemed to put on an extra touch of speed on their own account, just
then.

There was a rattle, a faint crash; and then, as the wheels of the two
vehicles almost touched each other in passing, Ford shouted,--