Brutus, Cow Pony 



preceded him, and then came his turn. He braced 

 himself, feet apart, the whistle blew shrilly, the 

 cables ran creaking through the blocks and he 

 felt himself lifted high in midair above the ship's 

 deck by the great derrick, swung out over the 

 dock, where he turned slowly in the air, kicking 

 viciously, with squeal upon squeal of sheer 

 wounded dignity and rage, and then gently 

 lowered until, scrambling, he found his feet and 

 stood quivering once more on terra firma. 



He was piebald, marked with brown and white, 

 and stood little more than fourteen hands, but a 

 horse was a horse now since the British govern- 

 ment had suddenly waked up and put a tag on 

 everything with four legs in sight. 



He was an American cow pony, and by contrast 

 was almost pitiful as he stood near an officer's 

 big English bred charger, while the soldiers, rest- 

 ing on their arms surrounded him laughing. He 

 eyed them viciously, with his back rounded like 

 a cat's and his ears laid back threateningly. 

 Then quickly the soldiers fell back and Brutus 

 saw an officer pushing his w^ay through the crowd 

 until he stood barely a safe distance from his heels. 

 The officer was adjusting his monocle and trying 

 to read what was printed on the white square of 

 paper plastered on the pony's quarter. Brutus 

 heard him muttering: — 

 133 



