"Poor brute:"
Hanging back suddenly, Stevie inflicted an arresting jerk upon his
sister.
"Poor! Poor!" he ejaculated appreciatively. "Cabman poor too. He told
me himself."
The contemplation of the infirm and lonely steed overcame him. Jostled,
but obstinate, he would remain there, trying to express the view newly
opened to his sympathies of the human and equine misery in close
association. But it was very difficult. "Poor brute, poor people!" was
all he could repeat. It did not seem forcible enough, and he came to a
stop with an angry splutter: "Shame!" Stevie was no master of phrases,
and perhaps for that very reason his thoughts lacked clearness and
precision. But he felt with greater completeness and some profundity.
That little word contained all his sense of indignation and horror at one
sort of wretchedness having to feed upon the anguish of the other--at the
poor cabman beating the poor horse in the name, as it were, of his poor
kids at home. And Stevie knew what it was to be beaten. He knew it from
experience. It was a bad world. Bad! Bad!
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