The ponies were changing pasture one bright September day. They had eaten the grass from a bottom sward, and the old white mare was leading the party to another, a mile to the south. Up the hill they went, in single file, the mares with drooping heads, looking neither to left nor right, the yearlings nearly as soberly, and the colts wandering on either side to examine things, like scouts on the flanks of a column. The ridge attained, they followed the turf by the road. The Isle of Wight, mostly cerulean blue with touches of pink and gold where the sun caught it, lay along the southern horizon; its hilltops alone showed, the sea being out of sight, so that the island seemed merely the last folds of mainland hill country.

The old mare took the road, and the long string of ponies, as they came on the hard, gritty surface, suddenly became audible, the pounding of their hoofs contrasting with their noiseless progress on the turf. The road was straight, and behind them a green-covered lorry approached rapidly. It lurched somewhat, as if the driver’s hand was none too steady. He had met an old acquaintance in Hythe, and they had celebrated the occasion. He held to his speed, being in a foolhardy mood. Why should he make way for ponies when they had all the forest on both sides of the road? They must get out of his way, or all the worse for them. But the ways of ponies were fixed long before motor-lorries or any other of man’s contrivances were in being, and the pace of a car was beyond their calculation. Skewbald was ambling behind his little brown friend on the left hand of the road. The man kept to his side, grinning in anticipation of the ponies’ sudden dart to safety.

Some quickness of perception beyond the ordinary, some electric rapidity of movement, alone saved Skewbald. The increasing noise and vibration warned him, and without stopping to bend his hind-legs for a leap, he jumped with all four feet sideways. The lorry, rushing on and missing him by inches, caught the poor little brown foal and hurled it into the ditch, its mother in front escaping with a severe bruise on her flank. The man involuntarily put on his brakes, and the other ponies had time to get off the road. He leaned out, and looked back. There was no car, nor anyone in sight. “Better get out of this,” he muttered, and set off, cursing, accelerating to top speed.

But he had looked only along the road. Tom, on pony-back, was going shopping for his mother, and, with his empty bags hanging from his saddle, had taken a short cut across the moor, and by a path through the trees on the hill. As he came to the top the swaying lorry caught his eye. He saw its check and the scattering of the ponies, then its hurried departure. He cantered along until he reached the spot where the brown mare stood, and shrank in horror from the foal’s injuries, far beyond his help, then with a hot urge within him to bring the culprit to justice, he set off along the road as fast as his pony could go.

A little later, a car with two officers and a chauffeur came tearing along in the same direction. As they neared the spot where the foal was struck, the brown mare was seen standing in the road. “Slow down,” ordered the senior officer peremptorily, remarking to his companion that there had been too many accidents to ponies that summer. “Pony hurt, sir,” said the chauffeur, stopping the car of his own accord. One glance at the foal showed that nothing could be done for it, save freeing it from pain. The younger officer got a revolver from the car, while the elder and his man examined the tracks of the lorry before its stoppage, and the pattern of the tyre impressions. Then a shot rang out, and the mare moved away in fright, but returned to the body as the car started.

When Tom reached the town he saw the lorry outside a public-house. He looked up the street; the policeman strolling along was an old acquaintance of his father’s, and the lad went up to him. “Please, Mr. Jones, that lorry ran over a foal back on the road.” “Oh!” exclaimed the constable; “sure? Where’s the driver? In there, I suppose. What happened?” At that moment the man emerged, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, and went to the lorry. “What’s this about a foal?” asked the policeman. “You ran into it.” The boy burst in with, “You ran it down! You know you did!” “You’re a lying little rascal,” retorted the man surlily; “I never went within a mile of a pony.” “I know this boy well,” said the constable, “and he wouldn’t make trouble for nothing. I want your name and address.” A few idlers strolled up, and the man began to bluff; he was in Government employ, and if his lorry with its load wasn’t in Ringwood by midday, someone would have to answer for it. Just then the car with the two officers came up. They jumped out and looked at the lorry tyres. “This is the car,” said the senior officer. “Where’s the chauffeur?” Tom, the policeman, and the bystanders all nodded accusingly at the driver. The officer turned on him. “You’re an inhuman brute, running down harmless creatures. No, sir; don’t bluster,” as the driver opened his mouth. “We came up after you, marked your tyre tracks, put the foal out of its misery, and we shall certainly attend to give evidence against you. Take my name, constable—General——,” mentioning a famous name, which made the crowd gape and the miserable driver shiver in his shoes.

And later when he appeared in court, the General, his subordinate officer, and the chauffeur attended, as well as Tom, who was complimented on the way in which he gave his evidence; and the driver was severely punished, as a warning to other brutal or careless people.

Denny Bog.