1 When they got up again, a huge cloud of black smoke was hanging where the windmill had been.
2 Clover was a stout motherly mare approaching middle life, who had never quite got her figure back after her fourth foal.
3 There were fifteen men, with half a dozen guns between them, and they opened fire as soon as they got within fifty yards.
4 The men fired again and again, and, when the animals got to close quarters, lashed out with their sticks and their heavy boots.
5 Having got there, he collected two successive loads of stone and dragged them down to the windmill before retiring for the night.
6 The blackbirds whistled it in the hedges, the pigeons cooed it in the elms, it got into the din of the smithies and the tune of the church bells.
7 The animals chased them right down to the bottom of the field, and got in some last kicks at them as they forced their way through the thorn hedge.
8 On Midsummer's Eve, which was a Saturday, Mr. Jones went into Willingdon and got so drunk at the Red Lion that he did not come back till midday on Sunday.
9 When Mr. Jones got back he immediately went to sleep on the drawing-room sofa with the News of the World over his face, so that when evening came, the animals were still unfed.
10 And about half an hour later, when Boxer had somewhat recovered, he was with difficulty got on to his feet, and managed to limp back to his stall, where Clover and Benjamin had prepared a good bed of straw for him.