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"I'll show you! Stand off," Mikolka screamed frantically; he

threw down the shaft, stooped down in the cart and picked up an

iron crowbar. "Look out," he shouted, and with all his might he

dealt a stunning blow at the poor mare. The blow fell; the mare

staggered, sank back, tried to pull, but the bar fell again with

a swinging blow on her back and she fell on the ground like a

log.

"Finish her off," shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself,

out of the cart. Several young men, also flushed with drink,

seized anything they could come across--whips, sticks, poles, and

ran to the dying mare. Mikolka stood on one side and began

dealing random blows with the crowbar. The mare stretched out her

head, drew a long breath and died.

"You butchered her," someone shouted in the crowd.

"Why wouldn't she gallop then?"

"My property!" shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing

the bar in his hands. He stood as though regretting that he had

nothing more to beat.