'No,' croaked the farmer, 'no no no.'
'The world will be a better place without you in it.' The lad steadied his pistol with both hands. 'You are a monster.'
'And you are an iconoclast,' moaned the farmer, still hopping. 'With no respect for tradition.'
'Such is indeed the truth. Now hand me your purse. You are losing a great deal of blood. It would be well for you to return to your farmhouse and have your wife dress your wounds.'
'Damn you,' said the farmer, adding profanities to these words.
'Your purse, now!'
The farmer grudgingly produced his purse. It was a weighty purse, full as it was with the gold of a foolish boy who had passed that way earlier in the day and failed to heed the farmer's advice. This foolish boy presently hung in joints in the farmer's smoking house.
'On second thoughts,' said the lad, 'I think it would be for the best if you went down into the hole.’
‘What?' cried the farmer. ' What?'
'The path is narrow,' said the lad. 'Your horse might stumble into that hole, if it doesn't have something to place its hoof upon.'
'What?' the farmer cried again.
'I mean to borrow your horse; I have walked enough for one day.'
'This is outrageous. Preposterous.'
'Best to get it over with as quickly as possible. Before you bleed to death.'
'But the hole.' The farmer ceased his hopping and stared down into the hole. 'The spikes. I am not so scrawny as you.'
'Spare,' said the lad. 'Wiry.'
'I will puncture myself.'
'That's a chance we'll have to take. The hole, or die where you stand.’
‘But the spikes...'
'Perhaps fate will smile upon you.’
‘Fate wears a somewhat glum face at present.’
‘Really? Yet I would swear that it grins in my direction.’
‘You...' The farmer spoke further profanity. 'The hole, and now.' The lad cocked his clockwork pistol.
The farmer, groaning and moaning, lowered himself into the hole.
The lad tucked his weapon back into his sleeve, stepped over to the farmer's horse and detached it from the cart. Then he leapt onto the horse's back and prepared to gallop away. 'I've never ridden a horse before,' he called down to the farmer, 'so this should be something of an adventure.'
'I hope you are thrown and break your neck,' called the farmer.
'What was that?'
'Nothing. May good luck attend you.'
'Thank you very much. And what is the name of this mount, farmer?'
'Anthrax,' called the farmer. 'But he'll not answer to your commands. Quite the reverse, in fact.'
'I'm sure Anthrax and I will get along fine.' The lad held Anthrax by his reins. 'And so we say farewell, master farmer. Our acquaintance has been brief, but it has been instructive. We have both learned something, so let us not part upon bad terms.'
'I am stuck fast.' The farmer huffed and puffed and moaned and groaned. 'I might well die in this hole.'
'If no one comes looking for you, then in a day or two you'll be slim enough to climb out. Or perhaps loss of blood will facilitate a more immediate shrinkage and you'll be home in time for tea.'
'You filthy...’
'Quite enough,' called the lad. 'Your conversation tires me. I will now take my leave for the city. One day I will return this way with great wealth. Though not along this particular path.'
'One thing before you go.' The farmer raised his voice.
'And what thing is this?'
'Tell me only your name.'
'My name?' said the lad. 'My name is Jack.'
'That is good,' called the farmer. 'A man may not truly lay a curse upon another man without first knowing his name. I curse you, Jack. May you never know wealth. May all that you wish for be denied you.'
'A spiteful sentiment,' said Jack. 'And so farewell. Jack dug his heels into Anthrax and Anthrax sprang forward.
The farmer, unable to duck his head, was heavily hooved upon.
2
Anthrax the horse jogged merrily along. There was a definite spring in his four-legged step. Freed from his death-cart constraints, he appeared a very happy horse indeed.
Jack, although pleased to be no longer walking, did not altogether share the horse's joy. Precariously perched, and lacking for equestrian skills, he clung to the horse's reins and counselled the beast to slow down a bit.
Which it didn't.
The path meandered, as paths often do, around grassy knolls and down through dingly dells. All was rural charm and niceness, all of which was lost upon Jack. He was rather peeved, was Jack. Peeved and altogether unsettled. He was peeved about falling into the farmer's hole. That had been a foolish thing to do. He should have listened more carefully to the farmer's warnings. To the phrasing of them. Jack's failure to interpret the farmer's words correctly had come close to costing him his life. That was very peeving indeed.
Regarding the altogether unsettledness, this was a twofold business. All that blood which had flowed from the farmer's maimed head: that was unsettling enough, but the fact that Jack had not actually meant to shoot the farmer's ear off in the first place was doubly unsettling. This had called into question the accuracy of Jack's clockwork pistol. He had meant to shoot the farmer in the knee. There would have to be a lot of work done upon that pistol if it was to prove any use at all as an accurate means of defence.
Anthrax kicked his back legs in the air, all but unseating Jack.
'Calm yourself,' cried the lad. 'No need to go mad, take it easy, please.'
The horse did a skip or two and settled into a trot.
'Slow down, please.'
The horse did not slow down.
The meandering path met up with a rugged track and Jack caught a glimpse of a signpost. It read to the city in fine big capitals.
'Jolly good show,' said Jack. 'Please slow down a bit, please.'
The horse began to canter.
'No!' Jack flung himself forward and clasped his arms about Anthrax's neck.
'Slow down!' he shouted into the horse's left ear. 'Slow down or I'll sell you for cat meat when we reach the city.'
The horse began to gallop.
'No!' shouted Jack, now altogether ruffled. 'Slow down! Slow down! No!'
If there is a faster thing than galloping that horses can do, this horse began to do it now.
Jack closed his eyes tightly and steeled himself for the inevitable concussion and imminent doom that awaited him.
Anthrax thundered forward, his hooves raising sparks on the rugged track, his ears laid back and a fair old froth a-forming round his mouth. The horse appeared possessed.
Eyes tight shut and mouth shouting, 'Slow down please,' Jack was borne along at the speed which is commonly known as breakneck.
The horse would not obey his commands. Quite the reverse, in fact.
And then Jack opened his eyes and a very broad smile appeared on his face. 'Faster!' he shouted. 'Yes boy, yes, faster! Faster! Faster!'
The horse slowed down to a gallop. 'Faster!' shouted Jack. 'Come on!' The horse slowed down to a canter.
'Faster!'
A trot.
'Faster!'
A jog.
'Faster!'
The horse, all sweaty and breathless, slowed down to a gentle stroll.
'And faster.'
Anthrax came to a halt.
Jack released his grip from the horse's streaming neck and slid himself down onto the ground. He patted the horse on an area known as a flank, then stroked its foaming muzzle parts.
'I should have known,' said Jack, taking deep breaths to steady himself. 'I'm sorry, boy. It was all my fault, wasn't it?'
The horse made a kind of grumbling sound, as if it understood.
'The damnable farmer trained you, didn't he, boy? He trained you to go faster if you were told to go slower and likeways round. In case anyone stole you. I remembered what he said: "He'll not answer to your commands. Quite the reverse in fact." And I'm sure that when you had eventually unseated your rider and tired yourself out, you'd have wandered home of your own accord. It seems that I have much to learn of the ways of the world. I will be very much on my guard from now on.'