He saw a small boy, a very small boy, tugging, pulling, and twisting at a tough gorse stick on a moorland. He felt the clenching of small teeth, the bruised ache of small hands, the heat of the small body, the obstinate determination of soul. A slight sound had caused the boy to turn, and he had seen a man on a big black horse, watching him with laughing eyes.
“You’ll never break that,” the man had remarked amused.
“I’ve got to. I’ve begun,” had been the small boy’s retort. And he had returned to the onslaught, regardless of the watching man.
Ten minutes had ended in an exceedingly heated triumph. The boy had sunk upon the grass, sucking a wounded finger. The mood of determination had passed with the victory. He had been too shy to look at the rider on the black horse. But the gorse stick had lain on the ground beside him.
“Shake hands,” the man had said.
And the boy had scrambled to his feet to extend a grubby paw.
“What’s your name?” the man had demanded.
“Antony Gray.”
“Not Richard Gray’s son?”
“Yes.”