The two girls watched them go. The gate-keeper hobbled thudding over the logs of the crossing, with his wooden leg. He had fastened the gate. Then he also turned, and called to the girls:
“A masterful young jockey, that; ’ll have his own road, if ever anybody would.”
“Yes,” cried Ursula, in her hot, overbearing voice. “Why couldn’t he take the horse away, till the trucks had gone by? He’s a fool, and a bully. Does he think it’s manly, to torture a horse? It’s a living thing, why should he bully it and torture it?”
There was a pause, then the gate-keeper shook his head, and replied:
“Yes, it’s as nice a little mare as you could set eyes on—beautiful little thing, beautiful. Now you couldn’t see his father treat any animal like that—not you. They’re as different as they welly can be, Gerald Crich and his father—two different men, different made.”
Then there was a pause.
“But why does he do it?” cried Ursula, “why does he? Does he think he’s grand, when he’s bullied a sensitive creature, ten times as sensitive as himself?”
Again there was a cautious pause. Then again the man shook his head, as if he would say nothing, but would think the more.
“I expect he’s got to train the mare to stand to anything,” he replied. “A pure-bred Harab—not the sort of breed as is used to round here—different sort from our sort altogether. They say as he got her from Constantinople.”
“He would!” said Ursula. “He’d better have left her to the Turks, I’m sure they would have had more decency towards her.”