S.
* * * * *
CAST.
The auctioneer glanced at his book. "Number 29," he said, "black mare,
aged, blind in near eye, otherwise sound."
The cold rain and the biting north-east wind did not add to the
appearance of Number 29, as she stood, dejected, listless, with head
drooping, in the centre of the farmers and horse-dealers who were
attending the sale of cast Army horses. She looked as though she
realised that her day had waned, and that the bright steel work, the
soft well-greased leather, the snowy head-rope and the shining curb
were to be put aside for less noble trappings.
She had a curiously shaped white blaze, and I think it was that, added
to the description of her blindness, which stirred my memory within
me. I closed my eyes for a second and it all came back to me, the
gun stuck in the mud, the men straining at the wheels, the shells
bursting, the reek of high explosive, the two leaders lying dead on
the road, and, above all, two gallant horses doing the work of four
and pulling till you'd think their hearts would burst.
I stepped forward and, looking closer at the mare's neck, found what
I had expected, a great scar. That settled it. I approached the
auctioneer and asked permission to speak to the crowd for a few
moments.
"Well," said he, "I'm supposed to do the talking here, you know.
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