The gray snow looked all the same, and the hollow track vanished a few yards in front; the rows of trunks had faded into a vague dark mass, and the branches met overhead in a thick canopy.

The horses were big, valuable Percherons, but they were exhausted and stood slackly, with steam rising from their foam-flecked coats.

Festing did not like the look of the dip, and knew the trees grew close upon the track at the bottom, but he must go down, and shouted to the hesitating animals.
They moved faster; the log grinding heavily across the snow behind.

Then the strain on the chain slackened, and he dragged at the bridle as he began to run.

The log could not be stopped now; it was moving faster than he had thought, and all that he could do was to keep the team in front.