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 Sample Final Exam #6
(Summer 2008; thanks to Hélène Martin)

1. Array Mystery
Consider the following method:
public static void arrayMystery(String[] a) {
for (int i = 0; i < a.length; i++) {
a[i] = a[i] + a[a.length - 1 - i];
}
}
Indicate in the right-hand column what values would be stored in the array after the method arrayMystery executes
if the array in the left-hand column is passed as a parameter to it.
Original Contents of Array Final Contents of Array
String[] a1 = {"a", "b", "c"};
arrayMystery(a1); _____________________________

String[] a2 = {"a", "bb", "c", "dd"};

arrayMystery(a2); _____________________________

String[] a3 = {"z", "y", "142", "w", "xx"};

arrayMystery(a3); _____________________________

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2. Reference Semantics Mystery
The following program produces 4 lines of output. Write the output below, as it would appear on the console.
public class Pokemon {
int level;

public Pokemon(int level) {

this.level = level;
}
}

public class ReferenceMystery {

public static void main(String[] args) {
int hp = 10;
Pokemon squirtle = new Pokemon(5);

battle(squirtle, hp);
System.out.println("Level " + squirtle.level + ", " + hp + " hp");

hp = hp + squirtle.level;

battle(squirtle, hp + 1);
System.out.println("Level " + squirtle.level + ", " + hp + " hp");
}

public static void battle(Pokemon poke, int hp) {

poke.level++;
hp -= 5;
System.out.println("Level " + poke.level + ", " + hp + " hp");
}
}

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3. Inheritance Mystery
Assume that the following classes have been defined:

public class Dog extends Cat { public class Cat {

public void m1() { public void m1() {
m2(); System.out.print("cat 1 ");
System.out.print("dog 1 "); }
}
} public void m2() {
System.out.print("cat 2 ");
public class Lion extends Dog { }
public void m2() {
System.out.print("lion 2 "); public String toString() {
super.m2(); return "cat";
} }
}
public String toString() {
return "lion";
}
}
Given the classes above, what output is produced by the following code?
Cat[] elements = {new Dog(), new Cat(), new Lion()};
for (int i = 0; i < elements.length; i++) {
elements[i].m1();
System.out.println();
elements[i].m2();
System.out.println();
System.out.println(elements[i]);
System.out.println();
}

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4. File Processing
Write a static method evaluate that accepts as a parameter a Scanner containing a series of tokens representing a
numeric expression involving addition and subtraction and that returns the value of the expression. For example, if a
Scanner called data contains the following tokens:
4.2 + 3.4 - 4.1
The call of evaluate(data); should evaluate the result as (4.2+3.4-4.1) = (7.6-4.1) = 3.5 and should return this
value as its result. Every expression will begin with a real number and then will have a series of operator/number
pairs that follow. The operators will be either + (addition) or - (subtraction). As in the example above, there will be
spaces separating numbers and operators. You may assume the expression is legal.
Your program should evaluate operators sequentially from left to right. For example, for this expression:
7.3 - 4.1 - 2.0
your method should evaluate the operators as follows:
7.3 - 4.1 - 2.0 = (7.3 - 4.1) - 2.0 = 3.2 - 2.0 = 1.2
The Scanner might contain just a number, in which case your method should return that number as its result.

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5. File Processing
Write a static method blackjack that accepts as its parameter a Scanner for an input file containing a hand of
playing cards, and returns the point value of the hand in the card game Blackjack.
A card has a rank and a suit. There are 13 ranks: Ace, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, Jack, Queen, and King. There are 4
suits: Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, and Spades. A Blackjack hand's point value is the sum of its cards' point values. A
card's point value comes from its rank; the suit is irrelevant. In this problem, cards are worth the following points:
Rank Point Value
2-10 The card's rank (for example, a 7 is worth 7 points)
Jack (J), Queen (Q), King (K) 10 points each
Ace (A) 11 points (for this problem; simplified compared to real Blackjack)
The input file contains a single hand of cards, each represented by a pair of "<rank> <suit>" tokens. For example:
5 Diamonds
Q Spades
2 Spades 3 Hearts
Given the above input, your method should return 20, since the cards' point values are 5 + 10 + 2 + 3 = 20.
The input can be in mixed casing, have odd spacing between tokens, and can be split across lines. For example:
2 Hearts
j SPADES a Diamonds
2 ClUbS
A
hearts
Given the above input, your method should return 36, since the cards' point values are 2 + 10 + 11 + 2 + 11 = 36.
You may assume that the Scanner contains at least 1 card (two tokens) of input, and that no line will contain any
tokens other than valid card data. The real game of Blackjack has many other rules that you should ignore for this
problem, such as the notion of going "bust" once you exceed a score of 21.

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6. Array Programming
Write a static method named allPlural that accepts an array of strings as a parameter and returns true only if
every string in the array is a plural word, and false otherwise. For this problem a plural word is defined as any
string that ends with the letter S, case-insensitively. The empty string "" is not considered a plural word, but the
single-letter string "s" or "S" is. Your method should return true if passed an empty array (one with 0 elements).
The table below shows calls to your method and the expected values returned:
Array Call and Value Returned
String[] a1 = {"snails", "DOGS", "Cats"}; allPlural(a1) returns true
String[] a2 = {"builds", "Is", "S", "THRILLs", "CS"}; allPlural(a2) returns true
String[] a3 = {}; allPlural(a3) returns true
String[] a4 = {"She", "sells", "sea", "SHELLS"}; allPlural(a4) returns false
String[] a5 = {"HANDS", "feet", "toes", "OxEn"}; allPlural(a5) returns false
String[] a6 = {"shoes", "", "socks"}; allPlural(a6) returns false
For full credit, your method should not modify the array's elements.

6 of 9
7. Array Programming
Write a static method named reverseChunks that accepts two parameters, an array of integers a and an integer
"chunk" size s, and reverses every s elements of a. For example, if s is 2 and array a stores {1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6},
a is rearranged to store {2, 1, 4, 3, 6, 5}. With an s of 3 and the same elements {1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6}, array
a is rearranged to store {3, 2, 1, 6, 5, 4}. The chunks on this page are underlined for convenience.
If a's length is not evenly divisible by s, the remaining elements are untouched. For example, if s is 4 and array a
stores {5, 4, 9, 2, 1, 7, 8, 6, 2, 10}, a is rearranged to store {2, 9, 4, 5, 6, 8, 7, 1, 2, 10}.
It is also possible that s is larger than a's entire length, in which case the array is not modified at all. You may assume
that s is 1 or greater (an s of 1 would not modify the array). If array a is empty, its contents should remain unchanged.
The following table shows some calls to your method and their expected results:
Array and Call Array Contents After Call
int[] a1 = {20, 10, 30, 60, 50, 40}; {10, 20, 60, 30, 40, 50}
reverseChunks(a1, 2);
int[] a2 = {2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16}; {6, 4, 2, 12, 10, 8, 14, 16}
reverseChunks(a2, 3);
int[] a3 = {7, 1, 3, 5, 9, 8, 2, 6, 4, 10, 0, 12}; {9, 5, 3, 1, 7, 10, 4, 6, 2, 8, 0, 12}
reverseChunks(a3, 5);
int[] a4 = {1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6}; {1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6}
reverseChunks(a4, 8);
int[] a5 = {}; {}
reverseChunks(a5, 2);

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8. Critters
Write a class Minnow that extends Critter from HW8, along with its movement and eating behavior. All other
aspects of Minnow use the defaults. Add fields, constructors, etc. as necessary to your class.
Minnow objects initially move in a S/E/S/E/... pattern. However, when a Minnow encounters food (when its eat
method is called), it should do all of the following:
• Do not eat the food.
• Start the movement cycle over. In other words, the next move after eat is called should always be South.
• Lengthen and reverse the horizontal portion of the movement cycle pattern.
The Minnow should reverse its horizontal direction and increase its horizontal movement distance by 1 for
subsequent cycles. For example, if the Minnow had been moving S/E/S/E, it will now move S/W/W/S/W/W. If
it hits a second piece of food, it will move S/E/E/E/S/E/E/E, and a third, S/W/W/W/W/S/W/W/W/W, and so on.
?
The following is an example timeline of a particular Minnow object's movement. The ??
timeline below is also drawn in the diagram at right. Underlined occurrences mark squares ??
where the Minnow found food. ???
???
• S, E, S, E (hits food) ?
????
• S, W, W, S, W, W, S (hits food) ????
• S, E, E, E, S, E, E, E, S, E (hits food) ??
• S (hits food) ?
??????
• S, E, E, E, E, E, S, E, E, E, E, E, ...

8 of 9
9. Classes and Objects
Suppose that you are provided with a pre-written class Date as // Each Date object stores a single
described at right. (The headings are shown, but not the method // month/day such as September 19.
bodies, to save space.) Assume that the fields, constructor, and // This class ignores leap years.
methods shown are already implemented. You may refer to them
or use them in solving this problem if necessary. public class Date {
private int month;
Write an instance method named bound that will be placed inside private int day;
the Date class to become a part of each Date object's behavior.
The bound method constrains a Date to within a given range of // Constructs a date with
dates. It accepts two other Date objects d1 and d2 as parameters; // the given month and day.
public Date(int m, int d)
d1's date is guaranteed to represent a date that comes no later in
the year than d2's date. // Returns the date's day.
The bound method makes sure that this Date object is between public int getDay()
d1's and d2's dates, inclusive. If this Date object is not between
// Returns the date's month.
those dates inclusive, it is adjusted to the nearest date in the public int getMonth()
acceptable range. The method returns a result of true if this
Date was within the acceptable range, or false if it was shifted. // Returns the number of days
// in this date's month.
For example, given the following Date objects: public int daysInMonth()
Date date1 = new Date(7, 12);
Date date2 = new Date(10, 31); // Modifies this date's state
Date date3 = new Date(9, 19); // so that it has moved forward
Date bound1 = new Date(8, 4); // in time by 1 day, wrapping
Date bound2 = new Date(9, 26); // around into the next month
Date bound3 = new Date(12, 25); // or year if necessary.
// example: 9/19 -> 9/20
The following calls to your method should adjust the given Date // example: 9/30 -> 10/1
objects to represent the following dates and should return the // example: 12/31 -> 1/1
following results: public void nextDay()
call date becomes returns
date1.bound(bound1, bound2) 8/4 false
// your method would go here
date2.bound(bound1, bound2) 9/26 false
date3.bound(bound1, bound3) 9/19 true }
date2.bound(bound3, bound3) 12/25 false

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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
out of the mud and began to flounder towards the firm ground,
leaving the two half-bogged themselves. The man reached out and
pulled the boy towards him, and they worked their way out.
They were covered with mud from head to foot, and regarded
each other doubtfully, until the man laughed (a smile would not have
been perceived), whereupon the boy exploded in peals of
merriment. Their hearts were warm within them, with the pleasure
of success, for horseflesh or ponyflesh is dear to the gipsy. Then,
picking up the eggs they had collected, which, being gipsies, they
had carefully deposited in a tussock, they departed.
But Skewbald carried a long scar on his belly, caused by a sharp
pine knot, to the day of his death.
 IX.—THE NEW-COMERS
It was full spring. For nearly a month May had flooded the forest with
sunlight. The gold of the gorse was blinding to the eye, and almost
intoxicating with its strong scent of burnt almonds. The powdery
snow of the blackthorn had been followed by the ropy, pinkish bloom
of the hawthorn. The foliage of the scraggy oaks was Italian pink
(which is a greenish yellow), while the silver birches and the beeches
had burst into leaf and emerald tassels had succeeded the crimson
buds of the larches. The brambles had two distinct sets of leafage,
those of last year, old and tattered, but magnificently blotched with
crimson and orange, and edged with sienna, while from their axils
sprays of tender green unfolded themselves.
This is the month of song, and everywhere the larks and
meadow-pipits rose in the air, the former to go up out of sight still
trilling, while the latter ceased singing, and came floating down
silently like parachutes of brown paper.
The lapwing chicks peeped from their mother’s wings, or crawled
over her back like the young of the domestic hen. If an enemy flew
over, the male bird rose in the air in a frenzy of militant defence,
while at the parents’ warning call, the chicks crouched and became,
to the casual glance, invisible.
As for the pony population of the forest, it seemed to have
doubled in numbers all at once, for everywhere the young foals
followed the mares, or lay basking among the heather. The early
foals were now tall and long-legged, though here and there a late
arrival stood unsteadily with bent hind-legs, or trotted a few paces
with a stiff-legged gait. It might even essay a gallop, a curiously
mechanical action, reminding one of a rocking-horse.
One mare, at least, had two little suckers, and here and there
quite a family procession passed, of mare, two-year-old, yearling,
and foal, the property of someone who had not troubled to sell the
youngsters, preferring to leave them in the forest to breed. Parties of
three—mare, yearling, and sucker—were quite common, the two
youngsters on the best of terms.
The hues of the new-comers were sometimes exactly those of
their mothers, but often quite different. An old mare, once a grey
but now dirty white, was followed by a black foal; if the latter were
closely scrutinized its eyebrows might be seen to be grey, and that
would mean the foal would turn grey like its mother, and again white
in old age—from black to white. But if the eyebrows were black like
the rest of the body, then probably the hue would remain black or
very dark, for black is rare in the forest, and as some think due to
importation of alien blood. In the case of one chestnut foal, its
darker eyebrows showed that when adult its coat would be of a rich
liver colour.
The majority of the foals bid fair to be like their parents, a dark
brown with blackish mane and tail, and the same similarity existed
with bays and chestnuts, though generally the foals were darker in
hue than their mothers.
But there were exceptions to this. A dappled grey mare, for
instance, instead of the more usual black-coated offspring, might be
accompanied by a foal, light fawn as to ground tint, with black
markings round its eyes and muzzle; or a dark mare be seen with a
light-coloured youngster.
The yearlings, among whom Skewbald was one, had shed their
winter coat by dint of rubbing against bushes below and
overhanging branches above. The bay and chestnut showed clearly,
and the lights began to appear on their coats, golden in the sun,
blue in the shade, though they could scarcely be said to “ripple,” for
the youngsters were still bony, with unfilled barrels.
Young Skewbald was not amongst the dullest hued of his fellows.
There were few whose chestnut was brighter than his, while his
white could not be matched anywhere among the ponies except for
an occasional “sock” or forehead blaze too small in area to tell at a
distance.
Like the others of his year, he walked sedately, for his hours of
coltish play were over. Never again would he gambol on the lawns
with a playmate in the golden evenings, though occasionally he
would lie down and roll, a pleasure every horse and pony indulges in
till the end of its days. Sufficient for the day was the labour of filling
his belly, although the forest fare increased daily in bulk and
sweetness.
 X.—THE BRANDING OF SKEWBALD
Three ponies were grazing on a long level stretch of moorland one
perfect evening in early September. To the north were low hills, their
sides covered with purple heather and fern, the latter already
showing orange amongst the green. Here and there an old thorn or
holly dotted the hillside, the ridge itself serrated by groups of firs.
Along the southern border of the moor flowed a tiny stream, a few
feet across, which, a few miles farther down, would expand into a
wide estuary dotted with yachts.
As the sun declined, the moor fell into shade, but on the hill the
red trunks of the firs and the orange of the fern glowed with richer
hues, while the heather added a ruddy tone to its purple. The foliage
took on that rich golden-green which landscape painters love, while
the shadows, deriving their colour from the blue of the eastern sky,
were glaucous green.
Skewbald, still a yearling although some sixteen months old, was
with his mother, who had also by her side her last foal, a brown filly.
She was well grown, for she had been born early in April.
As they grazed, Tom and Molly, followed by their father, rode
through the gate which led to the little farm beyond the river. “There
they are,” said the boy—“mare, yearling, and colt.” (New Forest folk
have a way of referring to a foal as a colt, even speaking of “horse
colts” and “filly colts.”) “Yes, close at hand,” said his father; “push
the gate wide open. I hope,” he continued, “as we haven’t all day to
catch the yearling in, that you’ll just get quickly to work, and
remember catching ponies is one thing, and running races with them
quite another.” Tom grinned, but in his heart hoped the ponies would
not let themselves be driven in without a run.
The father sent his boy along by the river, while he himself made
a detour to get behind the ponies. Molly was to go up the moor to
be in readiness in case of a break-away. The ponies were to be
driven through the gate over the wooden bridge into the paddock,
and, if it could be managed that evening, right into the stable yard.
The boy and girl were to watch them, while the father drove them
towards the gate. All went well at first. As the man emerged from
the trees in view of the ponies, the mare stopped feeding, looked at
the intruder, snorted, and trotted away with her offspring. The rider
followed, gently shepherding them towards the gate, his assistants
closing in on either side. Unfortunately, the youngest boy of the
family, who, with a small sister, was fishing in the stream, had
succeeded in bringing a minnow to land, and signalized his triumph
with a yell of delight, just as the ponies came towards the opening.
The mare pricked up her ears, swerved sharply, and, followed by her
youngsters, made off at full speed across the moor in spite of all
that the hunters could do. The man laughed ruefully, calling, “You’ll
get your run, Tom; we must try and get them in before night.” Tom
went like the wind, in shirt and trousers, and barebacked, on a little
rough pony, which knew every foot of the ground. The fugitives got
to a boggy place, and had to pick their way, so Tom, running wide,
got behind a patch of firs, and came upon the ponies suddenly—too
suddenly, for they went away up the moor, the mare shaking her
mane and tail, Skewbald keeping pace easily, and the foal doing
wonderfully well. They went right past the girl, though she tore off
her hat, whirled it above her head, and let off blood-curdling shrieks.
“After them, Molly,” called her father, and the thunder of hoofs
resounded, while the setting sun gilded the heather, firs, and fern
with a deeper glory than before, and enhanced Skewbald, as he
emerged with the mare and foal on the hilltop, then disappeared
behind clumps of hollies, or, a moment in shade, told dark on the
skyline. The wide, open situation, the sense of space, as the
retreating ponies diminished rapidly to mere dots, the sweet scent of
bruised bog myrtle, and the clear light, made a scene less like rural
England than the setting of some cowboy story of vast upland
country in, say, Idaho or Arizona. Only the great sierra background
was lacking.
Molly managed to drive the ponies off the moor, up the hill, along
the ridge, and then turning them, drove them down the steep forest
road across the moor towards the farm, Tom and her father on
either side, waving and shouting to prevent a break-away. There was
no trouble this time at the gate, for with man and boy to right and
left, and the girl thundering behind, the ponies were glad to dash
through. “Got ’em,” chuckled Tom as he closed the gate. The others
followed at the ponies’ heels over the bridge. The gates leading to
the yard were open, and all was quiet, for Mother had looked out to
see how things were going, and had taken charge of her two small
children. As it happened, the fugitives, instead of turning off into the
meadow, as they might have done, went up the road, dashed
through the opening, and found themselves in the stable yard. Molly
closed the great sliding-door, while Tom and his father, jumping from
their mounts, attended to Skewbald. As he was a lusty youngster,
and with his shaking mane and depressed ears looked mischievous,
they paid him the compliment of treating him like a full-grown
stallion, and Tom was given the job of haltering him, for practice.
The halter was hung on the end of a six-foot rod, and while his
father drove the yearling into a corner, distracting his attention, Tom
quietly slipped the loop over his head and fastened the rope to a
ring in the wall, before Skewbald had time to show resentment at
being tied up.
“Fetch the branding-iron, Tom,” said his father. Mother had it on
the kitchen fire in readiness. Meanwhile the man got a sack from the
shed, and watching his opportunity, dropped it over Skewbald’s
head, who, while objecting to it very much, was so puzzled by the
darkness, that he ceased his straining and backing, and was reduced
to quietude. This bandaging the eyes is not often done, only when it
is feared a pony may become obstreperous. Sometimes the yearlings
are driven into a stable with no space to kick in, when the brander
will reach over one pony to brand the next.
Tom brought out the iron, which was like a poker with a ring
handle for hanging up, and the branding device or letters welded to
the other end, and of course in reverse. Several such irons were
hanging in the stable.
There need be no shuddering at visions of red-hot iron and
sizzling flesh, for the iron when it reached the yard was black, and to
all appearance cold. Yet it was hot—hot enough to destroy hair
growth where it was pressed, and leave a permanent mark.
 The man took the iron and held it for a moment an inch from his
cheek to test its heat. “Just right,” he said; “hold him, Tom;” then
firmly pressed the iron against the shoulder—the shoulder, not the
saddle, for Skewbald was one day to go to the mines, where
appearances do not count for much, hard pulling and quick turning
being more highly rated. Skewbald did nothing out of the way when
the iron bit into his skin, did not kick or try to rear; he just winced,
and that was all.
Then the yearling was released and turned out into the paddock,
where his mother and her foal were awaiting him. The agister would
be along shortly, and Skewbald would be on hand for the tail-
cutting. This is also a delicate operation, as a pony may launch an
unexpected kick. Generally, a large pair of scissors in hand, the
cutter quietly draws the lower tail hair towards him with the crook of
a stick. In a stable into which a dozen ponies may have been driven,
perhaps for the first time in their lives, the agister will venture
fearlessly, and cut tail after tail without mishap, trusting to the good
sense of the ponies, which will not kick in the confined space, for
fear of hurting their fellow-prisoners.
Occasionally, half a dozen commoners will agree to meet on a
Saturday afternoon, for the purpose of collecting their ponies. The
harness of the ridden ponies varies in style, and is often more
homely than elegant. A man may be riding a horse or pony whose
accoutrements consist of mere scraps of leather held together by
string and rope. The boys of the party ride barebacked, or make an
old rug serve as saddle.
Some time may be spent in rounding up the ponies, which, after
much hard riding and shouting, are driven into a convenient
farmyard, in a bunch of twenty or thirty.
The quiet enclosure, tenanted only by a few pigs and poultry,
becomes a place of tumult as the hunted ponies surge in, snorting,
neighing, and tossing manes, the pursuers close on their heels to
prevent a break-away. In a moment all is life and movement. The
poultry and pigs dash hither and thither from beneath the trampling
hoofs. The riders jump from their mounts, which with drooping
heads stand passive as if glad to rest, strangely contrasting with the
restless movements of the wild ponies, which, cowed and
bewildered, crowd into a corner, penned up so closely that they have
no room to kick, even if they have the inclination; foals wander
about, seeking their dams; men and boys, leaning against their
steeds, chat with the daughters of the farm, while dogs and children
appear as if by magic, the tiniest tot seeming to bear a charmed life.
The unwanted ponies are now sorted out, an operation somewhat
troublesome and delicate, and given their liberty; the unbranded
ones are tied up and marked with their respective owners’ branding-
irons.
Then the company takes the farm road, leading the freshly
caught ponies. Most of the captives, after a few skirmishes, submit
to their fate, and go quietly, but some, more resentful of their
treatment and unwelcome bondage, give much trouble, both to their
captors and to themselves. They put down their fore-feet stubbornly,
refusing to budge, and when prodded by those behind, may fling
themselves down, to be dragged along the stony road. An obstinate
pony will try sorely the patience of those in charge of it, and
instances have occurred of an animal causing its own death by its
violent resistance; but, generally, after half a mile of rough
treatment, the pony realizes that further opposition is useless, and
follows more or less submissively.
 XI.—SKEWBALD’S JUMPING
October had been wet. Rain in the forest is, at all times of the year,
depressing. When the sun shines on purple heather, emerald fern,
and the ruddy stems of fir-trees, moorland and hillside are gay
enough, but in wet and stormy weather the landscape is the more
gloomy by contrast; the lowering clouds, the black sobbing pines,
the pools of water, the soggy tussocks squelching underfoot, make
up a dull and cheerless scene, although in the eyes of the forest
lover it is perhaps then at its best. The damp atmosphere intensifies
the local colour, and gives a sense of vastness and distance to the
perspectives.
The forest ponies dislike rain. They have to seek food most of
their day, and cannot afford to stand idly in shelter like their more
favoured relations. Also the boggy ground gets still more shaky and
uncertain, and the wary creature is cut off from the areas which
might supply him with food. In long continued rain the ponies leave
the open moor or hillside, and betake themselves to the woods,
where, under the umbrellas formed by the great oaks, beeches, and
firs, they find shelter, especially from what most living creatures
detest—a cold driving rain.
Skewbald, therefore, was with his companions in the woods,
nosing round for clumps of sweet grass, or, in the wettest spells,
taking shelter under overhanging trunks. His coat had grown thick
during the autumn, and with his dense mane and tail he was as well
protected as a pony could be.
The colt-hunter also disliked rain, for apart from the discomforts
of the chase in wet weather, rounding up the ponies is vastly more
difficult in the woods. On the open moor the chase is not always
successful. Not seldom one may drive ponies from miles away to
within sight of the open gate, and then something may arouse their
mistrust, may cause them to break away, and the work has to be
done over again. But, all things considered, the chase on the moor is
a picnic compared with driving ponies out of the woods. In the open
one has the great advantage of being able to view one’s quarry from
a distance, and formulate beforehand a plan of campaign. But in the
woods one must search and search until the ponies are chanced
upon, and then stick tenaciously to their heels until a capture is
effected. In the denser parts, one may beat about all day, and
although the ponies may be near, and even heard and seen, yet they
may change their ground so evasively that night may fall and still
find them uncaptured.
It was not raining much when the colt-hunter and his boy rode
out one morning, but the sky gave every promise of a downpour
later on. “Wet skins for us to-day, Tom,” said his father, as he
donned an old mackintosh, and a wide-brimmed hat, which would
divert the rain from his neck. Like other people who are out in all
weathers, he had no use for caps, which in heavy rain let the water
trickle down one’s back. Both riders had bread and cheese in their
pockets, for they might be out all day, if they were not fortunate in
the chase. It had been arranged that they should meet the agister,
who wished their help in locating and catching some yearlings and
older ponies. At this time of the year ponies are caught in some
numbers, and sent to the autumn and winter sales.
The colt-hunter, by long experience and a good memory for the
forms and hues of ponies, knew most of the many hundreds in the
forest, and their pedigrees. He was acquainted also with the likely
places where a wanted pony might be found at any time of the year.
The hunters, with a cheery good-bye to Mother and Molly, rode
some distance across the moorland and through the rides in the
woods, skirted bogs, and then made their way up a stone-strewn
hillpath to the south, past the spot where the young airman, flying
from the training-ground on Beaulieu Heath, had stooped at a great
white cross of gravel, marked out on the hillside, and had nose-dived
to the ground, crumpling up his machine and breathing his last in
the arms of a visitor camping near by. Father and son rode across
the barren plateau of Blackdown; to the east the great tumulus
stood dark and plain on the skyline, but in front of them Wood Fidley
was almost obscured by driving clouds of rain-mist coming from the
south-west.
 When they reached the main road, they found the agister waiting
for them. He had on his buckled hat, but his official coat was hidden
under his horseman’s cloak. He also foreboded bad weather and a
long drive through the woods. They crossed the road—now firm and
smooth, very unlike its stone-strewn surface during a dry summer—
took a winding path over the moors, and so into the woods.
The colt-hunter led the way into the deepest recesses, where
great oaks and beeches leaned one against the other, while the
ground was encumbered with undergrowth. As they slowed down to
a walk, they saw ponies, half-hidden by the bushes, stealing away.
“There’s one of those we’re after,” said the agister, “and there’s
another.”
Skewbald was not one of the wanted animals, but of course he
was not to know that, and made off with the rest. It was now
raining hard, the wood full of driving mist, and the going very heavy.
The fugitives had the best of it, for the ridden ponies sank below
their fetlocks in the wetter parts, while fallen branches, tangles of
briers and brambles, and drooping holly boughs impeded their
progress.
Tom’s pony, as keen as her rider, and not so heavily weighted,
made but little of the heavy ground. She made straight for the
fugitives directly she heard or saw them, without waiting for Tom’s
directing hand on the reins, and several times he was literally pulled
from the saddle by projecting boughs of holly, thorn, or oak. But he
held on to his mount, though torn, scratched, and wet through.
Then, when separated from the other riders, he saw his opportunity,
for he came upon Skewbald and a wanted yearling which had got
away from them earlier in the day, sheltering behind some dense
holly bushes. Off they went, with Tom close on their heels, and after
some amount of twisting and turning, the fugitives came out on a
grassy drive, with a gate at the far end.
Skewbald made the pace for his companion, and Tom put on a
last spurt, trying to get even with his quarry. Skewbald, as he
approached the barrier, glanced back at his pursuer, then, acting
under an overmastering impulse to escape, went at the gate, cleared
it, and was at once lost to sight in a forest enclosure. Tom went right
on, charging full tilt into the other pony, which he pinned against the
gate, nearly knocking the wind out of both animals. Before the
yearling had recovered himself Tom had him haltered, and a safe
prisoner.
In the New Year Skewbald again used his jumping powers, and
this time saved his life thereby. He was feeding with two other
young ponies in a rough part of the forest, when a stray hound, a
deserter from the kennels, alarmed them. The intruder, perhaps
wishing for company, ran towards them, but the ponies, not relishing
his advances, set off at a trot. The hound followed, and the trot
became a gallop. It chanced that an artillery company, training in the
forest, had dug some pits which had not yet been filled in. The
ponies are, as a rule, quite able to take care of themselves. They
have a good sense of geography and know the dangerous spots, as
bogs and pits, but, being driven away from the training-ground, they
were unaware of the existence of the excavations.
As Skewbald fled, through gorse, tall heather, and bog myrtle,
the pony in front of him disappeared with a cry, and, the next
moment, he found himself at the edge of a deep and wide pit, with
no time to turn. But the accident to his companion had given him
that fraction of a second of preparation which was enough for his
nerve and muscle. He made a spasmodic leap, and just managed to
land his heels on the far side. The third also leapt, but fell short.
When the hound, hearing the ponies’ moans, looked down, he
fled with a yelp of dismay. Later, the huntsmen, searching for the
truant, found the two ponies, one dead and the other grievously
hurt.
Longdown Moor.
 XII.—CHANGING THE BRAND
In the rougher corners of the forest are the tents of the gipsies, kept
by authority as far as possible from the more frequented beauty
spots. One comes across these encampments in little groups of two
or three wigwams, each being built on the same principle—a
framework of rods bent semi-circularly, over which are thrown
blankets and any odd lengths of stuff that can be so used. At one
end is the “baulk”—a square tapering tower of blanket or canvas
open to the sky. This is the chimney, the fire being built on the
ground inside, so that the inmates can prepare their food in the dry,
and enjoy the heat radiating into the tent proper. Generally there is
another tent beyond the fire, so that the baulk is in the middle of the
erection.
On a fine Sunday, one sees the weekly wash drying and
bleaching on the bushes, children playing with the dogs, the women
cooking and the men in their best clothes. Many before and after
Borrow, looking at the gipsy, have been impressed by his fixity of
type, his adherence to his mode of life in a country gradually losing
its open spaces, and maintaining himself in face of restrictive and
sometimes oppressive regulations. To many the standing marvel is
that he can live at all outdoors, not only in summer heat, but when
frost is in the earth, or when the ground shakes like a quagmire and
the ditches run like rivers. But nowadays millions of men who came
through the war remember how in the course of their training, or
under the actual conditions of warfare, they slept outdoors without
even a gipsy tent, by fair and foul, in wet and cold, and remember,
too, their astonishment that they suffered no harm, and, bullets
apart, thrived on the régime.
But the gipsy has this in common with the town dweller, that he,
too, gets his living there; to the town he must go to sell his produce
or manufacture, his flower or fern roots, his brooms, mats, baskets,
etc., and therefore a cart of some sort is almost a necessity, and to
draw the cart, a pony. The forest pony is thus of great importance to
the forest gipsy; she is hardy, gets her own living, is cheap to buy
when young, and is a source of wealth. Every forest gipsy is a
potential breeder and dealer; the pony is at once his passion and his
temptation. If he has no ponies to sell at the autumn sales, there is
less money to tide over the winter.
Therefore the ponies wandering at will, unnoted by their owners,
as free to wander as the wild creatures, have a great interest for the
gipsy, who regards the products of the forest as his lawful tribute.
The plover’s eggs, the rabbit, hedgehog and squirrel, the flowers
and ferns, either supply him with food or put money in his pocket.
But the pony is marked and tail-cut, plain signs that it is the
acknowledged and registered property of its owner, and not to be
appropriated with impunity. Of course, by far the greater number of
gipsies are strictly honest in regard to ponies, having learned like the
rest of us, from experience, that honesty is the best policy; but to
some an unmarked yearling pony must be a temptation, when a
branding-iron is always present in the shape of any iron bar handy,
to be thrust in the fire kept constantly burning.
One autumn, on the edge of the forest just outside a sheltering
wood a small encampment consisting of three gipsy tents and a
caravan nestled. As night fell the noise of people talking and children
playing ceased, for the gipsies go early to bed, and rise betimes. The
evening meal had been eaten, the youngsters snuggled to sleep in
corners, and only a few men and women sat around their fires
smoking, for most had had a long day going to town to sell their
wares, and were glad to seek repose.
Behind the tents, in a little blind lane with high hedges ending at
a gate, a mare was tethered. She had been deprived of her foal and
grieved noisily, whinnying loudly ever and again. Away on the moor
ponies were grazing, and hearing the repeated call of the bereaved
mother, they put up their heads for a moment. At last Skewbald,
now a two-year-old, and another pony of the same age, a dull bay,
could stand it no longer, and sidled away from the herd in the
direction of the call. As they approached the silent tents, the bay
whinnied, and the mare responded so appealingly that the two
quickened their pace to a trot. A big lad, lounging by the fire in the
nearest tent, looked out as they passed, and then crawled away
silently.
Skewbald and his companion went right up to the mare, which
tried hard to get away from her tether, whinnying repeatedly, so that
the two-year-olds did not notice several dark figures creeping
towards them in the obscurity of the ditch. But when a man
stumbled, the two ponies made off up the lane, only to be brought
up short by the gate. Their pursuers, close at their heels, threw
themselves at their necks, and soon the two were haltered and
secured.
An older man came out and examined the captives. Then in no
measured terms he abused the captors for troubling to tie up a pony
marked like the skewbald, an animal of such striking colour and
pattern, and probably well known to commoner, keeper, and agister.
It was as good as giving themselves up to the police to have it in
their possession for a moment, and he ordered the crestfallen young
fellows to release it at once. This was done, and, with a stripe on his
flank to help him along, Skewbald was turned loose, and made off
towards the herd. Then the man gave his attention to the bay, and
pronounced him ordinary enough to keep. But what were the marks,
if any? A lantern was brought, and the capitals C. F. were found on
the shoulder. A bar was heated and it was not difficult to convert the
marks into O. E., though much to the discomfort of the young bay.
His tail marks were cut right away as well. Then it was mooted
whether the pony should not be taken off at once, but this was
pronounced against, as likely to arouse the suspicion of the police, if
met with on the way. In a day or two a huckster would come along
with a string of ponies, and among them the bay would not attract
notice.
But unfortunately for the gipsies, the agister of the district, in tall
hat with buckle in front, and green coat with brass buttons,
happened to ride by next morning, on his way to clip the tails of
some ponies lately caught in.
As he passed, he noticed a young bay tied up behind a tent.
Now, the agister knew all the ponies of his district, and many others
in the other districts as well. Ponies were a passion with him. He
knew them not only by their brands and their colours, but by their
shapes, gait, and size. A pony once seen by him was never
forgotten, and he could recognize a wanted animal more than half a
mile away. He paused and scrutinized the bay. Yes, that was Charles
Finch’s two-year-old. He had known it since its birth, and could not
be mistaken. Its tail was short, but not cut after the fashion of any
of the three forest districts—in itself a suspicious circumstance. He
went closer and read the letters O. E. No one he knew of in the
forest used such a brand. He got off his pony and pressed his thumb
in the lowest arm of the E, and the pony winced.
That was enough for the agister, who turned to several lowering
but silent lads and men collected in a group. “Who claims this
pony?” he asked. There was no answer. “I am positive it’s Charles
Finch’s pony. I shall take it with me if no one objects;” and he tied
the pony to his own, and trotted away.
After he had done his business, he took the pony to its owner,
who, of course, recognized it at once. “Now,” said the agister, “this
must be stopped, or some rogues will give the gipsies a bad name.
It’s your duty to prosecute the men where I found the pony.” More
he urged of similar argument on old Finch, who heard him in silence,
and then flatly declined to take any proceedings whatever, “I got the
pony back, thanks to ye; and much obleeged, I’m sure. But I does
business with the gipsies, and most of ’em are a pretty good sort,
and stick to their bargain. If I prosecuted e’er a one of them, we
should never get on again. I’m out for peace and quietness with my
neighbours, and I shan’t let a pony come between us.” And though
the agister, having to take an official view of the matter, protested,
at heart he felt there was much to be said for the old man’s decision.
The Path to the Rufus Stone.
 XIII.—THE BROKEN LEG
One wet afternoon towards the end of September, the colt-hunter
was in his stable mending some harness. A yell from his youngest
boy made him jump, and he half-rose to see what was the matter,
but turned to his work again, as the boy’s little sister let forth a
shriek of delight. “Up to some lark,” he muttered, then started, as
both children shouted at the top of their voices, “Peter! Peter!” At
the same instant the gate slammed, the sound of a heavy boot was
heard, and the man tumbled outside, with the harness in his hand,
to find himself face to face with his eldest son in full kit, tin hat, rifle
and bandolier, and slung around with billycans, etc., his boots still
coated with the white slime of the French hills.
“Peter!” “Father!” came out at one breath, and as they grasped
hands, their faces came together, and they kissed—an odd thing,
perhaps, for forest men to do, but a son coming home from the war
unexpectedly was a thrilling moment, and apt to break down even
the reserve of a lifetime. Peter, never forgotten for a single day,
though not always mentioned by his parents, suddenly appearing, as
if from the skies, was enough to make his father gasp, unable to
utter more than, “Well, lad!” Then Mother, apprised, came rushing
forth, full of joy, and yet of wrath at not being the first to salute her
firstborn. She hugged and kissed him until he begged for mercy.
“The lad’s tired, Mother,” said the father; “let’s in, so’s he can get his
things off, and have a wash;” and Peter wanted this last badly. How
the youngsters revelled in the tin hat and its dents, while the father
spent some time cleaning his son’s boots. “Quite a bit of France,” he
said, as he carefully swept the chalk off the bench into an empty
matchbox.
You should have seen Peter eat, when he got among his mother’s
tarts and cakes. It appeared that he had the usual fourteen days’
leave, of which some time had already expired since he left Havre.
“What a shame!” exclaimed his mother. “However, we won’t think of
going away yet;” and everyone was happy, though later on, as Peter
inquired for first one and then another of his old schoolfellows, faces
fell, and answer was made sadly. After tea Peter felt a bit sleepy, so
the youngsters were sent off to play elsewhere, while he stretched
himself on a couch before the fire. He had to be wakened for supper,
but he didn’t mind, and said he would rather be called anything than
late for meals.
The next morning, of course, Peter wanted a mount, and
inquired what ponies were about. “You know the three in the stable,”
said his father; “and there’s a blue roan mare in the paddock, but
she’s not properly broken in yet, and you’ll find her rather skittish.”
Whereupon Peter, like a true forest lad, declared she would be just
the thing for him, and with the aid of his two brothers, drove her
into the yard and secured her.
When he mounted in the paddock, the mare treated him to a few
plunges, which he did not repress too sternly; and once out in the
open, went off at a great pace, her rider leaving her to go where she
listed, sure that she would keep away from unsafe ground. But after
letting off her steam with a good run over the heavy ground, the
mare slackened her speed, and Peter could take stock of the old
familiar sights and sounds. Perhaps the forest never looks so lovely
as in autumn, and especially when well soaked. The heather still
purpled the moor—a rich purplish-brown flecked here and there with
jewel-like pools. Towards the uplands, and in the woods, the wet
bracken had changed its usual autumnal orange for a rich sienna.
Once Peter glimpsed a pony, all deep chestnut, with mane and tail of
the same, a “self-coloured” animal, hardly visible against a bank of
bracken. Only its movements betrayed it, and then its foal, dark of
hue, was discovered where before it had been “lost” in the obscurity
of a holly-brake.
Out in the open, the lad took all to his heart, its beauty and its
appeal. A green woodpecker loped away from an ant heap where it
had been probing, and a covey of partridges scattered from the
pony’s hoofs. The forest ponies, singly or in groups, gave life and
focus to the landscape, and Peter saw that it was good.
Then as the mare started to run again, his hat was twitched from
his head by a holly-branch. He reined the pony in, and essayed to
pick up the hat with his whip, but having no crook to the butt, could
not manage it. “Hold on, old girl,” he said, dismounting. But it was
precisely at this moment that Skewbald, now a three-year-old,
grazing at a little distance by himself, and feeling lonely, gave vent to
a loud call. The grey whinnied, and began to move off, just as Peter
retrieved his hat, then, as he pulled on the reins, she kicked sharply,
getting the lad on the right shin. There was a sharp crack, and Peter
let go the reins with a grunt, stood motionless a moment, and then
slithered gently to the ground. As he did so and disturbed the
broken leg, he shouted with pain, and the mare, already making off,
increased her pace, the reins dangling from her neck.

* * * * *

A girl was bowling along a forest road on a bicycle. Joan Barton,

V.A.D. nurse in the forest hospital, had changed out of her uniform,
and was taking advantage of her spell off to get some open-air
exercise. She admitted to herself, as she spun along, that her own
Surrey commons, beautiful as they are, could not compare in extent
and wildness with the forest. She noted how the road wound, and
led the eye over the moors and hills, and what a fine surface mere
sand and gravel made, resilient and mudless in spite of recent heavy
rain. As the forest people say, the more it rains, the better the going.
Much better than in dry weather, when the surface gets loose and
covered with stones.
Presently a grey pony, saddled yet riderless, and standing by a
dead tree a little from the road, caught her eye.
She looked right and left for a rider, but saw no one. Then, acting
on an impulse, she got off her bicycle, and went up to the pony. It
moved as she came close, and she saw that the reins were held on a
snag. “Funny way to tie up a pony,” she said half-aloud; she knew
something about horses, and had acted as groom in a remount
stable while waiting for a vacancy in a hospital.
Some distance away was a herd of ponies scattered over the
moor. Among them she noticed one patterned in bright chestnut and
white, with the passing thought, that she had not before seen this
striking coloration among all the forest pony hues. She went to her
bicycle and stood scrutinizing the landscape, but she saw no one.
Then her attention was drawn to a patch of white like a piece of
paper dangling on a bush. But as she looked she saw the white
patch wave to and fro like a flag, and with a sudden jump of the
heart she realized that it was a flag, and spelling out letters. She
knew the code, being an enthusiastic leader of Girl Guides, and
watched the flag spell out the letters h-e-l-p. That was enough for
Joan. Close to where she stood, a pony track meandered in the
direction of the signal, and mounting her bicycle she bumped along
it, almost falling off in her anxiety to watch the flag. It disappeared,
but again showed itself wagging to and fro, then wavered and fell.
She had to get off her bicycle, and pushed it hurriedly along. There
behind a bush lay Peter, his face wrinkled with pain, yet full of relief
at the welcome sound of the girl’s approach. He was the first to
speak. “Morning, miss;” and he made shift to smile. “My pony got
me on the right tibia. But a clean fracture, I think.” Peter got this out
all in a breath. He had had enough warning of the girl’s approach to
concoct his speech, and was rather proud of his knowledge of
anatomy picked up in the first-aid class. Joan smiled too, pleased to
find her new patient collected and cheerful. “Been here long?” she
asked. “Not more than an hour, miss. I live over there,” he went on,
“but it’s a matter of three or four miles away.” “All right,” said Joan,
“but your leg had better go in some sort of splints before we can
think of your being moved.”
Then in response to a certain shade of anxiety on Peter’s face,
she added, “It’s all right, I won’t hurt you more than I can help. I’m
a nurse at a V.A.D. hospital.” “A nurse,” chortled Peter; “it seems I’m
having all the luck.”
“Well,” she laughed, “it doesn’t seem like it. I don’t think I’ll take
the puttee off. I’ll look for some stuff for splints.” She hunted round
for some straight sticks, and Peter lent her his great knife, which he
had to open for her, so that she could remove the knots. Then she
put on the splints, using Peter’s other puttee. “Don’t be afraid to
make a noise if I hurt you,” she said, but Peter made no sign of pain
except for a grunt or two. As she worked she talked. “It was clever
of you to signal,” she remarked. “Cleverer of you, miss, to see and
understand,” responded Peter; “ ’twas a good job Mother put out
white hankies for me this morning. My khaki ones went into the
washtub.”
Joan told him of the grey pony on the hill, and Peter recounted
the cause of his accident. “How long, nurse, before I’m able to go
back?” he asked.
“You’ll not be much use under two months. Your stay in Blighty
will be longer than you expected.”
“What’ll my sergeant say?” chuckled Peter. Joan made a cushion
of bracken for the injured leg and put another armful under his
head. “Now,” she said, “I’ll go back to the road for help.”
“But what’s that, nurse?” exclaimed Peter, and Joan also heard a
man’s call. A moment later a waggon laden with logs emerged from
a wood, some distance away, a man and a boy in attendance. Joan
ran across to them, and explained the situation. “Why, that must be
young Peter,” said the man; “I met him yesterday, all loaded up, on
his way home. We’ll do what we can, miss, but our wood-waggon
ain’t no use, you see, for it’s got no bottom. What’ll we do about
shifting him on to the road?”
But the boy was not a Scout for nothing. This was his moment,
and he made the most of it. “Why, dad,” he said, “that’s easy. You
cuts down two poles, and I gets them two sacks we’ve got on the
seat, and makes holes in the corners. Then we puts the poles
through the holes to make a stretcher, and carries him up to the
road.” The elders agreed that this was feasible, but without
enthusiasm, for fear of engendering pride in the young.
The man got his axe and cut down two young birches, remarking
that he s’posed “they” wouldn’t mind his cutting green wood for
once, while Joan and the boy prepared the sacks. When the
stretcher was ready, they laid it on the ground beside Peter, and
carefully placed him in it, packing his legs and feet with bracken, so
that the injured limb should not be jolted.
Then the man taking the poles at the head, and Joan and the
boy a pole each at the other end, they marched slowly up the hill,
Peter insisting on their keeping step, and giving an imitation of his
sergeant’s pronunciation. Once, as they crossed a little forest bridge,
he gave the order, “Break step,” but they refused, for fear of jarring
his leg, whereupon he promised them all C.B.
When nearly at the road, they heard the noise of an approaching
car, and all shouted together, the boy nearly letting go in the
excitement of the moment. The driver both heard and saw. He
stopped, and matters were soon arranged. The patient was carefully
deposited in the car with Joan as attendant. The boy was to go back
to fetch Joan’s bicycle and ride it to the hospital, then, returning,
would ride the grey mare back to Peter’s home. Joan was much
averse to this arrangement, protesting that the pony had done
enough mischief already that day. But the boy grinned, for he could
ride anything in the forest barebacked, and his family mantelpiece
was adorned with cups and trophies won in the forest junior
competitions. Remarking that he wouldn’t “come to no harm,” he
dashed down the hill for the bicycle, while the man, after seeing that
the grey pony was properly tied, returned to his waiting team.
Then came Armistice Day, or rather, in this quiet corner of Britain,
Armistice Night, for in the forest was not to be seen such ebullition
of spirits as in Regent Street, where, for instance, two middle-aged
clergymen, with ribbons in their clerical hats, danced along the
pavement playing tin whistle-pipes. But a great fire was to be lit on
the hill above Peter’s home, and all that afternoon men and boys
had been carting up logs and branches gleaned from the woods.
Most of the local forest people were there, including Tom, Molly,
and the two small children. Peter, now getting about with a stick,
having discarded his crutches, was sent up in the pony-trap, the hill
being deemed too steep for him.
When the fire died down and people were beginning to disperse,
a girl wheeling a bicycle passed Peter and his family. Tom let out a
shout: “Miss Barton!” and she stopped. She had seen Peter several
times since he had left hospital; indeed, he said his leg wouldn’t get
well unless she continued to take a friendly interest in his case. So
she had paid visits, when not on duty, Peter and she sitting in the
porch, looking on to the forest, talking and reading.
 Peter was saying that the hill was too steep and rough to cycle
down at night, and his leg felt well enough for him to walk down if
Miss Barton would lend him an arm in case he stumbled. Tom would
walk the bicycle down, which he was glad to do, though directly he
was out of sight he got on, and nearly came a cropper avoiding
some people going home.
So Joan and Peter went down together, taking a little path he
knew of, and on the way they saw the dim forms of ponies on either
side, all with heads down, browsing. Only one, the nearest, looked
up, and snorted as they passed. It was Skewbald, and Peter
suddenly found his tongue, for neither he nor Joan had had much to
say to one another.
“Why, that’s the beggar that upset my applecart,” he said, and
proceeded to narrate for the twentieth time how the call of the
three-year-old had caused his accident. Then with a flash of
inspiration he continued: “Lucky for me that he called when he did.”
“Yes,” said Joan, though she felt in her bones what was coming;
“you mean he got you a long leave.”
“I mean,” declared Peter, though his heart thumped, and he had
a strange difficulty in articulating, “that if it hadn’t happened, we
might never have met.” And so on, but as this is a tale about ponies
and not people, it will suffice to say that before they reached the
bottom of the hill, they were Joan and Peter to one another, and that
soon after Peter was demobilized the wedding took place.
 XIV.—HOW SKEWBALD RANG THE FIREBELL
The summer had been hot and rainless, and the beginning of August
found the moorland of the forest drier than the oldest commoner
had known it. Boggy places which had formerly to be skirted with
care were now firm under foot. The tussock grass was white and
sear, the fern orange and brown, while the leaves of the oaks were
eaten by myriads of caterpillars into delicate lace-like filigree.
The blackberries withered without ripening, except where they
grew in the meadow bottoms, still green, though the streams
dwindled, until in the gravelly, quick-running parts, there was hardly
enough water for the troutlets to scuttle past into the deeper pools.
One midday, on the road between Southampton and Lymington,
a tramping sailor was resting by the roadside. He lit his pipe, and
being a careful man, blew at the match before he threw it down.
Then he rose, and continued his journey. But the end of the match
still glowed, and the dry grass in contact with it, fanned by the wind,
began to smoke, and then to ignite with a tiny flame, which crawled
along the ground, until it came to the dry stump of a fir, its base
littered with bits of bark and dead branches. These sputtered, and
the fire began to spread. The wayfarer had passed on unheeding,
for he was facing the wind, and therefore received no warning of
what was happening behind him.
Down under the big trees the colt-hunter and his two boys were
cutting the fern for stable bedding. He had the right to get all he
wanted, though authority decreed that he was not to pick and
choose, not to cut only where the fern grew thick and tall. He must
clear his way steadily, even where it was sparse and stunted. This
year it was pretty short everywhere. The man used a scythe, the
boys were armed with sickles. At intervals they drew the fodder into
small heaps for carting.
The father straightened himself and sniffed. “Seems like burning.
Another heath fire, I expect. Glad if it burnt up the gorse, but
sometimes it burns up other things.” “What things, dad?” asked the
younger boy. “Trees which we want for firewood, and barns, ricks,
and sometimes homes. Run up the hill, sonny, and see if you can
make out whereabouts the fire is.” The boy did not run; it was too
hot. As he walked away, a shrill whinny was heard, then repeated
again and again. “My word!” exclaimed the man; “that pony is some
excited. Seems as if it came from the farm. What’s a forest stallion
doing there?” Just then in the quiet air a prolonged whistle was
heard. The father laid his scythe at the foot of a tree. “Come on,
Tom. Something’s the matter, or mother wouldn’t have blown the
whistle.” It was an agreed-on signal. Back the two went, and the
younger boy caught them up, saying he had seen a great cloud of
smoke, and it seemed right over the house.
“Nonsense,” said his father; “more like five miles away.” They
walked quickly along the forest avenue of gnarled oaks, tall beeches,
and odds and ends of hollies of no especial shape. “Look at all those
ponies outside the gate!” exclaimed Tom. There was a restless,
pawing, snorting, whinnying troop of mares and youngsters, but all
with head over or turned towards the closed gate. When the three
reached the farm, they saw Skewbald standing on the straw heap,
surrounded by pigs, poultry, and ducks. Mother was standing at the
garden gate with the baby in her arms. The skewbald whinnied
when he saw the arrivals and stamped impatiently. The man sniffed
again and muttered: “That fire seems closer than I thought. How’d
he get in?” he called. “He jumped it,” his wife replied. “I saw him.”
They opened the gate, and the ponies surged in after them. Tom
ran to slide back the big door, and had just time to flatten himself
against the wall, when Skewbald thundered past, followed by the
herd, right across the meadow to the ford, which they crossed. Then
they turned, faced the wind, and snuffed the air.
“Boys,” the father was saying, “this fire must be nearer than we
want. The smoke’s getting thicker every minute. Both of you get a
broom, and let’s get beyond the wood.”
The homestead was enclosed to the south-west by groves of
hollies and a plantation of firs. If these began to burn, sparks might
set the thatched roof and hayricks on fire. Beyond the wood was a
level tract of heather and gorse. The fire might not have caught this,
and there might yet be time to stop it spreading to the wood. When
they got beyond the trees, the gorse bushes at the far end of the
open space were burning with a loud crackling, and on the ground a
line of smoke, with here and there a sputter of flame, showed that
the fire was crawling towards them.
“Spread out, boys, and smack away at it,” was the order.
Then commenced a fight with the advancing enemy, in the face
of sparks and thick, pungent smoke. The boys worked bravely, but
the wind fanned the embers, and, often, after they had beaten down
the flames they had to run back, and put out a fresh outburst. Then,
where the grass and heather was longer, the fire began to burn
more vigorously.
“Get back, boys; we’ll wait and fight it where it’s shorter,” said
the father. “Hooray!” Tom exclaimed; “here they come!” First a man
on a pony, then a boy on a bicycle, two more friendly helpers in a
trap, all coming to help as fast as they could; and later, a motor-car
from the big house on a hill miles away, and crammed with helpers,
hooted its arrival.
Some had brooms or beaters, and some took branches, but all
fell to with a will, yet as they worked, the cloud of smoke seemed to
get blacker and heavier. Instead of mounting into the sky like a pillar
of cloud, it hung about their heads until they could hardly breathe.
The sky became black, and still the fire defied their efforts.
A boy looked up and yelled, “Rain!” He had felt a drop on his
face. Someone felt another, but they were not leaving anything to
chance, and smacked steadily away at the smouldering herbage.
Then the rain began to come down steadily until everyone had a
wet shirt. When the danger was over the volunteers began to move
off, saying they must be going, in spite of entreaties to come back to
the farmstead. They knew that the wife with her baby would be sore
put to it to entertain so many. But one or two who lived farther off
were persuaded to come along, and to these the colt-hunter
expatiated a dozen times on the fortunate circumstance of the
ponies running from the fire, and taking the road through the wood
to the farm. As Tom said, the skewbald rang the firebell for them.
 XV.—THE WANDERERS
Skewbald, now a four-year-old, had in late August succeeded to the
leadership of the company with which he had been running. The
stallion which had lorded it over the herd had been “caught in,” and
Skewbald had stepped into his place as the acknowledged superior
of the young males. It was destined to be a temporary supremacy,
for, as a skewbald, he could not be welcomed as a breeding stallion;
his coloration was too pronounced. Self-coloured browns and bays
were considered to be truer to the forest type. Skewbald’s lot was to
be that of a pit pony.
No young stallion challenged him to battle twice, for Skewbald
possessed, besides strength, a spirit, a quickness of movement
together with a power of deciding rapidly, and when roused, a
fighting temper which boded ill for an enemy.
As a future pit pony he had the merit of not being too tall, but he
was perfectly proportioned, and his carriage and ease of movement
proclaimed his fitness as an instrument of strength and speed.
Patterned as he was in bold chestnut and cream-white, his coat
did not show the high lights rippling over the muscles of a bay or
black, but the slinging of his barrel between his shoulders and
flanks, the arch of his neck and withers, the action of his fore-legs,
and the tension of his hocks, marked him as beyond the ordinary.
His mane, very bushy, and like his tail waved as with a lady’s
curling-irons, was white nearly to the regions of his ears, where it
turned to chestnut with an intervening streak of purplish-black. His
long, ample tail, carried in a drooping curve, was white above and
dark below. His on-side had one great chestnut patch covering most
of his barrel and flank, and extending below the hock. From a
distance, this side was deceptive, because the great brown blotch
looked like a pony standing end on. The offside had the neck and
face chestnut, and a spot of the same on his barrel smaller in area
than on the other side, and leaving his hind-leg white.
 But although he looked and acted like a born leader, kept the
yearlings and two-year-olds in their places, rounded up the mares
and saw that all were on the move when the herd was changing
quarters, and, last but not least, glanced continually round the
horizon for enemies in the shape of agisters or other colt-hunters, it
must not be supposed that he decided all the movements of his
company.
Some of the mares were years older than he, and knew the
forest infinitely better—the grassy lawns and bottoms, the bare
“plains,” wind-swept in hot weather, and the great woods with
sheltered recesses in drenching rain. So they, as a rule, took the
initiative and decided when to move and where to go. But the
direction once indicated, Skewbald took charge and acted as convoy.
In the herd was an old rusty-black mare with white forehead
blaze and off hind-sock. She had been broken in for riding and was
shod, as might be seen by her footprints, the imprint of the double
line of the shoe showing out among the single, nearly circular curves
of the unshod ponies.
In her time she had assisted in the “catching in” of many a pony,
and now that she was again in the forest, although she had lost the
timidity of the uncaught beasts, she made up for this by the wiliness
of one who knew the ways of man. Time and time again the colt-
hunters wished her far away, when they found her in company with
ponies they wanted. They might manœuvre the group at a gentle
trot across the moor, but just as they approached a tempting open
gateway, the mare would check, toss her head, snort, and break
away at a gallop, followed by the rest, in spite of shouts and
cracking of whips.
She was also a persistent wanderer, a “lane haunter,” “lane
creeper” or “romeo” (an atrocious Forest pun)—that is, a pony which
escapes from the forest into the lanes to munch the sweet grass of
the hedgerows. This is considered one of the worst vices in a forest
pony, because she leads others with her. Then the agister may
impound the culprits, and the owners have to pay for any
depredations, as fence-breaking and crop-spoiling, that may have
been committed. Prizes are offered for well-bred ponies in good
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