One hundred sixteen years ago this Wednesday, this story appeared in Rider & Driver:

“While the sleighing in this vicinage was at its best a few days since there started from the Suburban Club, one crisp evening, a trim cutter drawn by an equally clean-cut and racy-looking roadster. The driver, almost buried in furs, was in partial eclipse, so that his identity was completely hidden by the frost-defying robes. As the fleet-footed trotter skimmed along, setting time and the municipal limit of “seven miles an hour” at defiance, a mounted police officer came into view. Passing this living picture of an equestrian statue in a trice, the occupant of the sleigh heard the sharp command, “Pull up, you’re going too fast.” Instead of complying literally, the reins were the only part of the flying equipage that were “pulled up,” and the result was more speed. Noting the utter disregard of his mandate, the officer spurred his steed and started in hot pursuit of the offender. Another call on the nimble roadster was like pulling the throttle valve of an Empire State express engine wide open, and the galloping guardian of the peace was soon left hopelessly behind. When this phantom road driver had eluded his would-be captor he took it easier and jogged along to Van Cott’s stable on West Fifty-eighth Street. “What sort of a drive did you have, Superintendent?” was the query put to the man who had just run the gauntlet. “Out of sight,” was the appropriate response, as the mass of robes was flung aside and the stalwart form of the Byrnes stood revealed. And then the Chief of the New York police told how his trotter had “won in a walk” over one of his own patrolmen. The latter’s discomfiture would have been complete could he have got a glimpse of the quarry he had tried to run down and carry off to the station house. The Superintendent was testing the efficiency of his force. He will advocate better mounts.”