He too found pleasure in having a comrade, even if
it were only a horse, but the animal would probably attract the
attention of scouts or skirmishers. He tried to shoo him away, but for a
long time the horse would not move. At last he pulled a heavy bunch of
grass, wadded it together and threw it in his face.
The horse, staring at him reproachfully, turned and walked away. John's
lively fancy saw a tear in the huge, luminous eye, and his conscience
smote him hard.
"I had to do it, Marne, old fellow," he called. "You're so big and you
stick up so high that you arouse attention, and that's just what I don't
want."
He had decided to call the horse Marne, after the river near by, and he
noticed that he did not go far. The animal, reassured by John's friendly
after-word, began to crop the grass about twenty feet away. He had a
human friend after all, one on whom he could rely. Man did not want to
be bothered by him just then, but that was the way of man, and he did
not mind, since the grass was so plentiful and good. He would be there,
close at hand, when he was needed.
John was really moved by the interlude. The loneliness, and then the
friendliness of the horse appealed to him. He too needed a comrade, and
here he was. He forgot, for a time, the moaning of the shells over his
head, and began to think again about his escape. So thinking, the horse
came once more into his mind. He showed every sign of grazing there
until dark came.
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