The spectators, seeing this, sighed in relief. The man on the mule could beat the wagons to safety now. Even McCarthy was relieved, for he was afraid of a jam as the sorrel went through the line. If Ashton could stay on, the sorrel would undoubtedly beat all the wagons home. Interest thereupon shifted from Ashton to the racing wagons again, and the crowd saw that Morgan’s team was forging ahead, was even now with Dwyer, on the rail. The other three teams had dropped behind about half a mule’s length. Morgan, however, was watching the big boss, out ahead. If the sorrel should stop, it would be Morgan’s hitch, or possibly Neeson’s, that must strike him! Morgan’s face twitched, but nobody was close enough to see that. Then, without warning, the unexpected happened. The sorrel mule, seeing a piece of paper on the track, shied violently, and Ashton slumped in his saddle, lost a stirrup, fought for his balance, lost that, and tumbled off--all in a shorter space of time than it takes to tell it. A groan went up from the stands, for it seemed to every one that the man must be crushed, in a minute, under the racing wagons. No driver could halt in time. To McCarthy, who had climbed to the top of the fence to see, and to Morgan, who had already seen, the situation was worse than that, if such was possible. Ashton had not fallen on the track, where _expert_ drivers _might_, by a miracle, avoid him and sweep to both sides. Instead he was bumping along, one foot caught in a stirrup, at the heels of the sorrel mule--powerless to help himself! Morgan had waited only a second; in that second he had glanced at Neeson, to see that Neeson had turned his head away. No help there! Flynn, on the other side, was a team’s length behind, and Morgan couldn’t see his face. It didn’t matter. While the crowds gasped in horror, Morgan swung down from his seat, worked along the pole between the wheelers, slid out over the back of Tar Baby, one of the swing team, while the hitch went on at a tremendous gallop. Then, by sheer luck, or nerve--perhaps both--by clinging to straps, and a leap, reached the back of Imp, the off leader, and perched there for breath. It was heroic work, but what could the daring driver do to help Ashton? To the crowd it seemed that Morgan’s exploit was in vain. Mounted on one of his leaders he might reach for Ashton if the hitch overtook the sorrel, but even at that he could not disentangle the unfortunate owner in time to save him from the mess that would follow the overtaking of the sorrel. No, Morgan’s work was in vain. Even McCarthy, the wagon boss, groaned with that realization. Morgan was trying, but unless the sorrel and Ashton parted company before Morgan’s hitch overtook them, there seemed no chance.