“Pony Girl, you have been doing quite well, for a new Trotter,” said a somewhat more cultured voice. “Now you are going to learn to canter. This will be your first lesson of many.”
“NnnnYyyoooo,” I wailed, trying to beg around the mouth-filling steel. “‘Llleeeaasse! ‘L-l-leeaase! I ‘an’t ‘ake any ‘ore! EEllleeaaasse ‘et ‘e ‘ouu!”
“Pony Girls are not permitted speech,” was the uncaring response. The belt began moving again.
“OOOhhh, ‘elp ‘e! ‘Elp ‘e! I ‘ant ‘oo s’op,” I wept, begging unashamedly to be released, but as before, it was no use and I had to come up to the fast walk that the now steadily moving belt required me to maintain.
The needle began its upwards creep while I tried frantically to co-ordinate all of my legs into a sequence of moving that allowed me to remain upright; i
