A few minutes later two pigeons came racing in with the news: “Boxer has fallen! He is lying on his side and can’t get up!”
About half the animals on the farm rushed out to the knoll where the windmill stood.
There lay Boxer, between the shafts of the cart, his neck stretched out, unable even to raise his head.
His eyes were glazed, his sides matted with sweat. A thin stream of blood had trickled out of his mouth.
Clover dropped to her knees at his side. “Boxer!” she cried, “how are you?”
“It is my lung,” said Boxer in a weak voice. “It does not matter. I think you will be able to finish the windmill without me.
There is a pretty good store of stone accumulated. I had only another month to go in any case.
To tell you the truth, I had been looking forward to my retirement.
And perhaps, as Benjamin is growing old too, they will let him retire at the same time and be a companion to me.”
“We must get help at once,” said Clover. “Run, somebody, and tell Squealer what has happened.”
All the other animals immediately raced back to the farmhouse to give Squealer the news.
Only Clover remained, and Benjamin who lay down at Boxer’s side, and, without speaking, kept the flies off him with his long tail.
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