John knew
from his build that he was a draught horse, but there were times in
which one could not choose a particular horse for a particular need.
"Marne, old fellow," he said, stroking the animal's mane, "you're not to
be a menial cart horse tonight. I am an Arabian genie and I hereby turn
you into a light, smooth, beautifully built automobile for one passenger
only, and I'm that passenger."
Holding fast to the thick mane he sprang upon the horse's back, and
urged him down the stream, keeping close to the water where there was
shelter among the willows and bushes. He had no definite idea in his
head, but he felt that if he kept on going he must arrive somewhere. He
was afraid to make the horse swim the river in an effort to reach the
French army. Appearing on the surface of the water he felt that he would
almost certainly be seen and some good rifleman or other would be sure
to pick him off.
He concluded at last that if no German troops came in sight he would let
the horse take him where he would. Marne must have a home and a master
somewhere and habit would send him to them. So he ceased to push at his
neck and try to direct him, and the horse continued a slow and peaceful
progress down the stream in the shadow of small trees. The night was
darker than those just before it, and the dampness of the air indicated
possible flurries of rain. Cannon still rumbled on the horizon like the
thunder of a summer night.
While trusting to the horse to lead him to some destination, John kept a
wary watch, with eyes now growing used to the darkness.
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