“Stop! stop!” cried Tom.
“Oh stop, stop! mercy! mercy! mercy!” shrieked old Sam, who was hobbling on as fast as his sticks would let him move.
The pony reached the edge. In he plunged. Tiny Paul clung to his mane, but cried out with fear.
The blind pony waded on, for the water was not at first deep. Tom jumped in, but soon got his legs caught by the weeds; and then the pony began to swim. Tom could not swim, so he dared not follow.
“Stick on, Tiny Paul, stick on,” he shouted.
But Tiny Paul was crying too much to hear him. Just then a stout weed caught the child’s foot. Tiny Paul let go the mane. The pony swam on; the weed dragged Tiny Paul off, and the next moment Tom saw only one little hand clutching at the air above the water.
Sam Green was still some way off at that sad moment. He hobbled on till he reached the edge of the pond, where he found Tom, who crawled out, sighing and crying bitterly.
“Where’s the child; where is Tiny Paul?” shrieked out the old man.
Tom said nothing, but pointed to the middle of the pond.
Sam did not seem to know what Tom meant, but looked to the other side, where the pony was standing shaking his shaggy sides.