I blew up the tire, which was somewhat flabby, and went on to
untie my sturdy pony. The moment I looked at her I saw the poor little
brute was wearied out with her two long rides in the sweltering sun. Her
flanks quivered. "It is no use," I cried, patting her, as she turned to
me with appealing eyes that asked for water. "She CAN'T go back as far
as Salisbury; at least, till she has had a feed of corn and a drink.
Even then, it will be rough on her."
"Give her bread," Hilda suggested. "That will hearten her more than
corn. There is plenty in the house; Tant Mettie baked this morning."
I crept in reluctantly to fetch it. I also brought out from the dresser
a few raw eggs, to break into a tumbler and swallow whole; for Hilda
and I needed food almost as sorely as the poor beast herself. There was
something gruesome in thus rummaging about for bread and meat in the
dead woman's cupboard, while she herself lay there on the floor; but one
never realises how one will act in these great emergencies until they
come upon one. Hilda, still calm with unearthly calmness, took a couple
of loaves from my hand, and began feeding the pony with them.
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