"Back to Bobs, of course. Hurry up!"
"I can't go back there," Cecil said, angrily. "I'm limping, and—"
"Do you think your limp matters an atom just now?" Jim said, through his teeth. "Hurry up."
He followed Cecil, not trusting himself to speak. A dull despair lay on his heart, and above everything a great wave of pity for the little sister across the paddock. If he could spare Norah—!
Then they were in the gully, and he saw Bobs above him, and knew in that instant that he could spare her nothing. The bay pony lay where he had fallen, his head flung outwards; helplessness in every line of the frame that had been a model of strength and beauty an hour ago. As Jim looked Bobs beat his head three times against the ground, and then lay still. The boy flung round, sick with horror.
"Why, you vile little wretch—you've killed him!"
He had Cecil in a grip of iron, shaking him as a dog shakes a rat—not knowing what he did in the sick fury that possessed him. Then suddenly he stopped and hurled him from him into the bracken. He ran down the gully.
"Go back, Norah dear—don't come."
Norah and Wally had come cantering quickly round the shoulder of the hill. She was laughing at something Wally had said as they rode into the gully, and the laugh was still on her lips as she looked at Jim. Then she saw his face, and it died away.
"What is it, Jim?"