The
cars were approaching us rapidly, and stopped for no one. When they got
opposite Mr. Thompson's tavern, sure enough, there on the Chicago road
came William Cremer, like a streak, with his hat off, waving it in his
hand, looking back over his shoulder at the cars, hallooing like a
trooper and his horse running for dear life. He had beat them for the
mile. Of course, before Cremer got up to us, we all started for the
railroad, which was about twenty-five rods to the south, to see the iron
horse come in. He came prancing and pawing upon the iron track, and he
disdained to touch the ground. His body was as round as a log. His bones
were made of iron, his veins were filled with heat, his sinews were of
brass, and "every time he breathed he snorted fire and smoke." He moved
proudly up to the station, little thinking that he had just been beaten
by a Dearborn horse. "With his iron reins" he was easily controlled and
held in subjection by his master. His groom pampered and petted him,
rubbed him down, oiled his iron joints and gave him water to drink. He
fed him upon the best of cord-wood, as he relished that very well, and
devoured it greedily.
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