"When I goes round my 'orses in the mornin' they look at me like so many bull-oxes askin' to be slaughtered," he said. "Never see sich a sight. Never!"
Old Mat for once was glum. His eye lost its twinkle, and his walk its famous lilt. Mr. Haggard was genuinely sorry for the old man.
"Miss her, Mr. Woodburn?" he asked, stopping the trainer in the village street.
"Miss her!" cried the other. "Mr. Haggard, there's nothing about Hell you can teach me. I knows it all." He waved a significant hand and walked away, his heart in his boots.
Of all the party at Putnam's, Mrs. Woodburn only seemed undisturbed. Unmoved by the gloom of those about her, glum looks, short answers, and the atmosphere of a November fog, she went about her business as before.
Boy's history during those weeks has never been written, and never will be. What she did, said, thought, and suffered during that time—and what others did, said, thought, and suffered because of her—none but the Recording Angel knows. The girl herself never referred to the point; but were reference made to it, she winced like a foal at the touch of the branding-iron.
The episode happily lasted but three weeks.
At the end of that time, on a Saturday morning, one of the lads had ridden the Fly-away filly over to Lewes. There in the High Street the girl swooped on him.
"Get off!" she ordered.
The lad, who feared Miss Boy as he did the devil, obeyed with alacrity.