“Perhaps he is hurt,” Ivy murmured shakily.
“I don’t care if he is dead,” Sên snapped. “You and he must lift it off those babies. Be quick! But first put your hand in my pocket—trouser pocket—this left one—get my knife—open it. Can you cut the traces? Be quick!”
She fumbled with the knife, but—though she ripped her light glove and tore her nail—she could not open the blade. The ponies were plunging wildly, and they were strong little beasts—only the man holding them now ever would know how strong.
Sên called sharply to the boy squat on the curb; but Buttons sat still and continued to blubber.
“Hold it up to my mouth—but look out for their hoofs!” Sên told her.
Ivy obeyed, but as his teeth tugged at the blade—perhaps her hands trembled a little in spite of her, for a moan of pain came from under the overturned phaeton—the blade slipped and a trickle of blood went from Sên’s lip to his stern-set chin.
“Now cut the traces. You must!”
Ivy tried.
“Saw—saw like hell!”
The moments seemed like hours. Sên knew that the sinews of his left arms were perilously strained—that was nothing, if only their strength held—and Ivy thought that she was only scratching the strong leather she tried to cut.