I just had a view of the animal coming
towards me when the match went out and left me in the total darkness.
I did not like the look of the horse, and I wished that it had been
better bound when its master left it. It was coming nearer and now
pawing the floor with its hoof. I edged closer to the door; if it were
not for the shells I would go outside. Why was that horse allowed to
remain loose in the stable? I tried to light another match, but it
snapped in my fingers. The horse was very near me now; I could feel
its presence, it made no noise, it seemed to be shod with velvet. The
moment was tense, I shouted: "Whoa there, whoa!"
It shot out its hind legs and a pair of hoofs clattered on the wall
beside me.
"Whoa, there! whoa there! confound you!" I growled, and was outside in
a twinkling and into the arms of a transport sergeant.
"What the devil--'oo are yer?" he blurted out. (p. 170)
"Did you think I was a shell?" I couldn't help asking. "I'm sorry," I
continued, "I came in here out of that beastly shelling."
"Very wise," said the sergeant, getting quickly into the stable.
"One of your horses is loose," I said. "Do you know where the London
Irish is put up here?"
"Down the road on the right," he told me, "you come to a large gate
there on the left and you cross a garden. It's a big buildin'."
"Thank you. Good night."
"Good night, sonny."
I went in by the wrong gate; there were so many on the left, and found
myself in a dark spinney where the rain was dripping heavily from the
branches of the trees.
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