The horse's withers were reached and the
tassels bobbing rakishly gave a hilarious look to the condemned
animal.
Four men, very sweaty, carrying spades entered.
"It's done," said the first, nodding, "and it's a big grave. Glad
pet horses don't die oftener."
"This ain't a pet," snapped Willet. "He's just that much property
and being of no more use is thrown away--just like an old tin can.
No more sense in burying one than the other. If I had my way about
it I'd----" But Geth entered. With his coat off he gave an
impression of greater size, like Cuddy his lines were graceful
enough to minimize his weight.
"Hole dug? Well, let's saddle up and start out." He did not go up to
Cuddy to speak to him as he usually would have done, but as if
trying to avoid him, he fell to patting Happiness's striped face.
She was fretful in her new quarters. "Perhaps," thought Willet,
"she knows it's old Cuddy and _he's_ gone out for good." All the
horses seemed nervous and unhappy. It was as if they knew that one
of their number was to be taken out to an inglorious death--not the
fortune to die on the turf track as a steeple-chaser might wish, but
ignominiously, on a hill top, after a soft canter through spring
meadows.
Pages:
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147