That gave the animals pause， and there was a hush. Muriel
began to spell out the words. But Benjamin pushed her aside and in
the midst of a deadly silence he read：
“‘Alfred Simmonds， Horse Slaughterer and Glue Boiler， Willingdon.
Dealer in Hides and Bone-Meal. Kennels Supplied.’ Do you not
understand what that means· They are taking Boxer to the
knacker’s！”
A cry of horror burst from all the animals. At this moment the
man on the box whipped up his horses and the van moved out of the
yard at a smart trot. All the animals followed， crying out at the
tops of their voices. Clover forced her way to the front. The van
began to gather speed. Clover tried to stir her stout limbs to a
gallop， and achieved a canter. “Boxer！” she cried. “Boxer！ Boxer！
Boxer！” And just at this moment， as though he had heard the uproar
outside， Boxer’s face， with the white stripe down his nose，
appeared at the small window at the back of the van.
“Boxer！” cried Clover in a terrible voice. “Boxer！ Get out！ Get
out quickly！ They''re taking you to your death！”
All the animals took up the cry of “Get out， Boxer， get out！” But
the van was already gathering speed and drawing away from them. It
was uncertain whether Boxer had understood what Clover had said.
But a moment later his face disappeared from the window and there
was the sound of a tremendous drumming of hoofs inside the van. He
was trying to kick his way out. The time had been when a few kicks
from Boxer''s hoofs would have smashed the van to matchwood. But
alas！ his strength had left him； and in a few moments the sound of
drumming hoofs grew fainter and died away. In desperation the
animals began appealing to the two horses which drew the van to
stop. “Comrades， comrades！” they shouted. “Don’t take your own
brother to his death！” But the stupid brutes， too ignorant to
realise what was happening， merely set back their ears and
quickened their pace. Boxer’s face did not reappear at the window.
Too late， someone thought of racing ahead and shutting the
five-barred gate； but in another moment the van was through it and
rapidly disappearing down the road. Boxer was never seen
again.
Three days later it was announced that he had died in the
hospital at Willingdon， in spite of receiving every attention a
horse could have. Squealer came to announce the news to the others.
He had， he said， been present during Boxer''s last hours.
“It was the most affecting sight I have ever seen！” said
Squealer， lifting his trotter and wiping away a tear. “I was at his
bedside at the very last. And at the end， almost too weak to speak，
he whispered in my ear that his sole sorrow was to have passed on
before the windmill was finished. ‘Forward， comrades！’ he
whispered. ‘Forward in the name of the Rebellion. Long live Animal
Farm！ Long live Comrade Napoleon！ Napoleon is always right.’ Those
were his very last words， comrades.”
Here Squealer’s demeanour suddenly changed. He fell silent for a
moment， and his little eyes darted suspicious glances from side to
side before he proceeded.
It had come to his knowledge， he said， that a foolish and wicked
rumour had been circulated at the time of Boxer’s removal. Some of
the animals had noticed that the van which took Boxer away was
marked “Horse Slaughterer，” and had actually jumped to the
conclusion that Boxer was being sent to the knacker’s. It was
almost unbelievable， said Squealer， that any animal could be so
stupid. Surely， he cried indignantly， whisking his tail and
skipping from side to side， surely they knew their beloved Leader，
Comrade Napoleon， better than that· But the explanation was really
very simple. The van had previously been the property of the
knacker， and had been bought by the veterinary surgeon， who had not
yet painted the old name out. That was how the mistake had
arisen.
The animals were enormously relieved to hear this. And when
Squealer went on to give further graphic details of Boxer’s
death-bed， the admirable care he had received， and the expensive
medicines for which Napoleon had paid without a thought as to the
cost， their last doubts disappeared and the sorrow that they felt
for their comrade’s death was tempered by the thought that at least
he had died happy.
Napoleon himself appeared at the meeting on the following Sunday
morning and pronounced a short oration in Boxer’s honour. It had
not been possible， he said， to bring back their lamented comrade’s
remains for interment on the farm， but he had ordered a large
wreath to be made from the laurels in the farmhouse garden and sent
down to be placed on Boxer’s grave. And in a few days’ time the
pigs intended to hold a memorial banquet in Boxer’s honour.
Napoleon ended his speech with a reminder of Boxer’s two favourite
maxims， “I will work harder” and “Comrade Napoleon is always
right”—maxims， he said， which every animal would do well to adopt
as his own.
On the day appointed for the banquet， a grocer’s van drove up
from Willingdon and delivered a large wooden crate at the
farmhouse. That night there was the sound of uproarious singing，
which was followed by what sounded like a violent quarrel and ended
at about eleven o’clock with a tremendous crash of glass. No one
stirred in the farmhouse before noon on the following day， and the
word went round that from somewhere or other the pigs had acquired
the money to buy themselves another case of whisky.
……
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