THE ponies were changing pasture one bright September day. They had
eaten the grass from a bottom sward, and the old white mare was leading
the party to another, a mile to the south. Up the hill they went, in
single file, the mares with drooping heads, looking neither to left nor
right, the yearlings nearly as soberly, and the colts wandering on
either side to examine things, like scouts on the flanks of a column.
The ridge attained, they followed the turf by the road. The Isle of
Wight, mostly cerulean blue with touches of pink and gold where the sun
caught it, lay along the southern horizon; its hilltops alone showed,
the sea being out of sight, so that the island seemed merely the last
folds of mainland hill country.
The old mare took the road, and the long string of ponies, as they came
on the hard, gritty surface, suddenly became audible, the pounding of
their hoofs contrasting with their noiseless progress on the turf. The
road was straight, and behind them a green-covered lorry approached
rapidly. It lurched somewhat, as if the driver’s hand was none too
steady. He had met an old acquaintance in Hythe, and they had celebrated
the occasion. He held to his speed, being in a foolhardy mood. Why
should he make way for ponies when they had all the forest on both sides
of the road? They must get out of his way, or all the worse for them.
But the ways of ponies were fixed long before motor-lorries or any other
of man’s contrivances were in being, and the pace of a car was beyond
their calculation. Skewbald was ambling behind his little brown friend
on the left hand of the road. The man kept to his side, grinning in
anticipation of the ponies’ sudden dart to safety.
Some quickness of perception beyond the ordinary, some electric rapidity
of movement, alone saved Skewbald. The increasing noise and vibration
warned him, and without stopping to bend his hind-legs for a leap, he
jumped with all four feet sideways. The lorry, rushing on and missing
him by inches, caught the poor little brown foal and hurled it into the
ditch, its mother in front escaping with a severe bruise on her flank.
The man involuntarily put on his brakes, and the other ponies had time
to get off the road. He leaned out, and looked back. There was no car,
nor anyone in sight. “Better get out of this,” he muttered, and set off,
cursing, accelerating to top speed.
But he had looked only along the road. Tom, on pony-back, was going
shopping for his mother, and, with his empty bags hanging from his
saddle, had taken a short cut across the moor, and by a path through the
trees on the hill. As he came to the top the swaying lorry caught his
eye. He saw its check and the scattering of the ponies, then its hurried
departure. He cantered along until he reached the spot where the brown
mare stood, and shrank in horror from the foal’s injuries, far beyond
his help, then with a hot urge within him to bring the culprit to
justice, he set off along the road as fast as his pony could go.
A little later, a car with two officers and a chauffeur came tearing
along in the same direction. As they neared the spot where the foal was
struck, the brown mare was seen standing in the road. “Slow down,”
ordered the senior officer peremptorily, remarking to his companion that
there had been too many accidents to ponies that summer. “Pony hurt,
sir,” said the chauffeur, stopping the car of his own accord. One glance
at the foal showed that nothing could be done for it, save freeing it
from pain. The younger officer got a revolver from the car, while the
elder and his man examined the tracks of the lorry before its stoppage,
and the pattern of the tyre impressions. Then a shot rang out, and the
mare moved away in fright, but returned to the body as the car started.
When Tom reached the town he saw the lorry outside a public-house. He
looked up the street; the policeman strolling along was an old
acquaintance of his father’s, and the lad went up to him. “Please, Mr.
Jones, that lorry ran over a foal back on the road.” “Oh!” exclaimed the
constable; “sure? Where’s the driver? In there, I suppose. What
happened?” At that moment the man emerged, wiping his mouth on his
sleeve, and went to the lorry. “What’s this about a foal?” asked the
policeman. “You ran into it.” The boy burst in with, “You ran it down!
You know you did!” “You’re a lying little rascal,” retorted the man
surlily; “I never went within a mile of a pony.” “I know this boy well,”
said the constable, “and he wouldn’t make trouble for nothing. I want
your name and address.” A few idlers strolled up, and the man began to
bluff; he was in Government employ, and if his lorry with its load
wasn’t in Ringwood by midday, someone would have to answer for it. Just
then the car with the two officers came up. They jumped out and looked
at the lorry tyres. “This is the car,” said the senior officer. “Where’s
the chauffeur?” Tom, the policeman, and the bystanders all nodded
accusingly at the driver. The officer turned on him. “You’re an inhuman
brute, running down harmless creatures. No, sir; don’t bluster,” as the
driver opened his mouth. “We came up after you, marked your tyre tracks,
put the foal out of its misery, and we shall certainly attend to give
evidence against you. Take my name, constable—General ——,” mentioning
a famous name, which made the crowd gape and the miserable driver shiver
in his shoes.
And later when he appeared in court, the General, his subordinate
officer, and the chauffeur attended, as well as Tom, who was
complimented on the way in which he gave his evidence; and the driver
was severely punished, as a warning to other brutal or careless people.
[Illustration: Denny Bog.]
[Illustration]