"Poor old Solomon! I never liked him, but we've had so many runs together." His hand dropped to his side with the rope, and he tottered, for the reed tuft seemed to be sinking.
Solomon brayed again and fought desperately to free himself, but sank lower.
"Heave, Dick, heave!" shouted Tom.
"Throw it over, my lad! throw it over, or thou'lt be too late!" cried the wheelwright; but Dick did not move.

His eyes were fixed upon the donkey's head, but his thoughts were far back in the past, in sunny days when he had been riding by the edge of the fen to the town, or down to the firm sand by the sea, where Solomon always managed to throw him and then gallop off.

Then there were the wintry times, when the donkey's hoofs used to patter so loudly over the frozen ground, while now-- Perhaps it was very childish, for Dick was a strongly built lad of sixteen, and had his memory served him truly it would have reminded him of that terrible kick in the leg which lamed him for a month--of the black-and-yellow bruise upon his arm made by the vicious animal's jaws one day when he bit fiercely--of that day when he was pitched over Solomon's head into the black bog ditch, and had to swim out--of a dozen mishaps and injuries received from the obstinate beast.

But Dick thought of none of these, only of the pleasant days he had had with the animal he had known ever since he could run; and, whether it were childish or not, the tears rose and dimmed his eyes as he stood there gazing at what seemed to be the animal's dying struggles, and thinking that it would be kinder to let him drown than to strangle him, as he felt sure they would.
"Why don't you throw, Dick ?" cried Tom again in an excited yell that was half drowned by Solomon's discordant bray, though it was growing more feeble as the struggles were certainly more weak.
All at once Dick started and his eyes grew more clear.

It was not at the warning shout of the wheelwright, nor the yell uttered by the other men, but at the action of the sufferer in the bog.