Doubtless it had caught the distant echo of hoofs; for half a minute later a low whinny sounded from the summit of the dark slope, and a grey form came lumbering down at a trot, halted, and thrust forward its muzzle to be caressed.
"Pleasant! Oh, my dear Pleasant!" stammered Gunner Sobey, reaching out a hand and fondling first her nose, then her ears.

He could have thrown both arms around her ewe neck and hugged her.

"How did I come to sell 'ee ?" To be sure, if he had not, this good fortune had never befallen him.
Neither Gunner Sobey nor the mare--nor, for that matter, the jackass--had ever read the eighteenth book of Homer's Iliad; and this must be their excuse for letting pass the encounter with less eloquence than I, its narrator, might have made a fortune by reporting.

For once Gunner Sobey's readiness failed him, under emotion too deep for words.

He laid a hand on the mare's withers and heaved himself astride, choosing a seat well back towards the haunches, and so avoiding the more pronounced angles in her framework.