Gaunt, filthy, and tottering, the flies mercilessly busy about three shocking sores, the roan was presenting a terrible indictment to be filed against the Day of Judgment. '…And not one of them is forgotten before God….' But there was worse than pain of body here. The dull, see-nothing eyes, the heavy-laden head, the awful-stricken mien, told of a tragedy to make the angels weep—an English thoroughbred, not dead, but with a broken heart.
We had administered the brandy, Jonah was bathing a sore, and I had made a wisp and was rubbing Zed down, when—
"Good day," said a voice.
With his arms folded upon the sill, a little grey-headed man was watching us from a window.
I looked up and nodded.
"Good day," I said.
"Ah like boxing," said the man. "Ah've bin twelve years in the States, an' Ah'd rather see boxing than a bull-fight. You like baseball?"
I shook my head.
"I've never seen it," I said.
"Haven't missed much," was the reply. "But Ah like boxing. You visiting Spain?"