"I call it an uncommon bore, this doing nothing but looking at the trees.

I say, Breynton, the slope's easy here for a quarter of a mile; come ahead." "No, thank you; I don't approve of racing up mountains." Tom might have said he didn't approve of being beaten; the iron-gray was no match for the colt, and he knew it.
"Who'll race ?" persisted Mr.Francis, impatiently; "isn't there anybody ?" "I will," said Gypsy, seriously enough.
"You!" said Tom; "why, the colt would leave that bay mare out of sight before you could say Jack Robinson." "Oh, I don't expect to beat.

Of course that's out of the question.

But I should like the run; where's the goal, Francis ?" "That turn in the road where the tall fir-tree is, with those dead limbs; you see ?" "Yes.

We'll trot, of course.