He threw
his arm over the pony's neck and pulled its head down against his
chest and began talking to it.
It was as though he wished to emphasize his loneliness.
"You are not tired, are you? No, you're not," he said. His voice
was as kindly as though he were speaking to a child.
"Oh, but you can't be tired. What?" he whispered. "A little hungry,
perhaps. Yes?" He seemed to draw much comfort from his friend the
pony, and the pony rubbed his head against the Englishman's shoulder.
"The commandant says he will question you in the morning. You will
come with us to the jail now," his captor directed. "You will find
three of your people there to talk to. I will go bring a blanket for
you, it is getting cold." And they rode off together into the night.
Two days later he would have heard through the windows of Jones's
Hotel the billiard balls still clicking joyously, but the men who
held the cues then would have worn helmets like his own.
The original Jones, the proprietor of Jones's Hotel, had fled. The
man who succeeded him was also a refugee, and the present manager was
an American from Cincinnati.
