“Was he ill?”
“He ran away,” said the man shortly.
“Ran away?” The boy stopped his dusting, and stared, open-mouthed.
“Aye, ran away. Grew weary of back-bending, perhaps. I do not know. I do not believe in kings.”
“Not believe in kings?” The boy stopped his brushing.
“You do, of course,” sneered the man. “Because a thing is, it is right. But I think. I use my brains. I reason. And I do not believe in kings.”
Up the runway came sounds from the ring, the thudding of hoofs, followed by a child’s shrill, joyous laughter. The man scowled.
“Listen!” he said. “We labor and they play.”
“It has always been so. I do not begrudge happiness.”
But the man was not listening.