This was the last time. These were the last horses that would
go through their hands. The young men watched with critical, callous
look. They were all frightened at the collapse of their lives, and the
sense of disaster in which they were involved left them no inner freedom.
Yet they were three fine, well-set fellows enough. Joe, the eldest, was a
man of thirty-three, broad and handsome in a hot, flushed way. His face
was red, he twisted his black moustache over a thick finger, his eyes
were shallow and restless. He had a sensual way of uncovering his teeth
when he laughed, and his bearing was stupid. Now he watched the horses
with a glazed look of helplessness in his eyes, a certain stupor of
downfall.
The great draught-horses swung past. They were tied head to tail, four of
them, and they heaved along to where a lane branched off from the
highroad, planting their great hoofs floutingly in the fine black mud,
swinging their great rounded haunches sumptuously, and trotting a few
sudden steps as they were led into the lane, round the corner. Every
movement showed a massive, slumbrous strength, and a stupidity which held
them in subjection. The groom at the head looked back, jerking the
leading rope. And the calvalcade moved out of sight up the lane, the tail
of the last horse, bobbed up tight and stiff, held out taut from the
swinging great haunches as they rocked behind the hedges in a motionlike
sleep.
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