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"Let me get in, too, mates," shouted a young man in the crowd

whose appetite was aroused.

"Get in, all get in," cried Mikolka, "she will draw you all. I'll

beat her to death!" And he thrashed and thrashed at the mare,

beside himself with fury.

"Father, father," he cried, "father, what are they doing? Father,

they are beating the poor horse!"

"Come along, come along!" said his father. "They are drunken and

foolish, they are in fun; come away, don't look!" and he tried to

draw him away, but he tore himself away from his hand, and,

beside himself with horror, ran to the horse. The poor beast was

in a bad way. She was gasping, standing still, then tugging again

and almost falling.

"Beat her to death," cried Mikolka, "it's come to that. I'll do

for her!"

"What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?" shouted an

old man in the crowd.

"Did anyone ever see the like? A wretched nag like that pulling

such a cartload," said another.

"You'll kill her," shouted the third.