of yelling, hairy men with knives—long shiny knives, worse than the farrier’s
knives—and I have to take care that Dick’s boot is just touching the next man’s
boot without crushing it. I can see Dick’s lance to the right of my right eye, and I
know I’m safe. I shouldn’t care to be the man or horse that stood up to Dick and
me when we’re in a hurry.”
“Don’t the knives hurt?” said the young mule.
“Well, I got one cut across the chest once, but that wasn’t Dick’s fault—”
“A lot I should have cared whose fault it was, if it hurt!” said the young mule.
“You must,” said the troop horse. “If you don’t trust your man, you may as
well run away at once. That’s what some of our horses do, and I don’t blame
them. As I was saying, it wasn’t Dick’s fault. The man was lying on the ground,
and I stretched myself not to tread on him, and he slashed up at me. Next time I
have to go over a man lying down I shall step on him—hard.”