“Five,” said Biddy.
“And I’m entered for next Spring steeplechases, so Tally ho! But I know—I’ll never throw Lord Jim again!”
SIMON.
Simon lay on the grass, thinking. He flicked a fly that was tickling. Although he was a most worthy horse, he was often troubled with very grand notions about himself and very poor thoughts concerning his neighbours.
Day had not yet begun at Tower Tighe Farm. The stars had faded away, and the great warm sun was waking up the nestlings, waking them up to cry for food, and disturb folk generally, for everything was very quiet and still at Tower Tighe.
The owner, John Fairfax, was a spare man, very thin, with a grey straggly beard, and bright blue eyes. He possessed fierce-looking brows, and a very long nose. His wife was a fat little lady, who bustled about a great deal, and went round the farm saying kind things to everybody, and to Tony the fox-terrier in particular, for Tony was a thorough little scamp. He told old Simon one day, that missis was a deary, and behaved fine when she wasn’t walking. Then she was just like a lop-sided hour glass, so fat all round—save at the waist, which was thin, and she wobbled like a tee-totum.
SIMON.
“If everything and everybody would only wake up,” moaned Simon, chafing at the stillness about him.