He shook the reins and the horse rushed forward like an arrow. Before the mile post was reached it became evident that Telegraph had taken the game entirely out of his master's hands. In vain the reins were tightened. Proctor leaned so far back that his hat fell off. Still the frantic horse sped on. The mile post flashed by, but Eugene could barely sit erect, much less note the time. At this stage of the proceedings, the whir of wheels behind gave a new impetus to Telegraph's flying feet. They were near a point in the road where an alley led off at right angles, and thinking, doubtless, that it was time to retrace his steps, the horse dashed down the alley, heedless of Proctor's efforts to restrain him, and, turning into a neighboring street, rushed back toward the city. Bareheaded, and with heavy drops of perspiration streaming from his face, Proctor cursed, and jerked, and drew the useless reins. On went Telegraph, making good his title, now swerving to this side of the road and now to that; but as he approached a mass of bricks which were piled on one side of the street, near the foundations of a new building, the moonlight flashed upon a piece of tin in the sand on the opposite side, and, frightened by the glitter, he plunged toward the bricks. The wheels struck, the buggy tilted, then came down again with a terrible jolt, and Eugene was thrown out on the pile. Proctor was jerked over the dashboard, dragged some distance, and finally left in the sand, while Telegraph ran on to the stable.