THE SEVEN FULL YEARS
But Martin was not dead, nor even seriously injured. At first, the
affair looked so ugly--its main features were so incomprehensible--that
Mr. Herbert was startled into somewhat panic-stricken action. Here was
Martin lying unconscious on the ground, with Elsie kneeling by his side,
passionately beseeching him in one breath to speak to her, and in the
next accusing Angele Saumarez of murder.
The vicar was not blameworthy, in that he failed to grasp either the
nature of the accusation or its seeming unreasonableness.
The single rope of the gymnastic swing erected in the garden for Elsie's
benefit had been cut deliberately with a sharp knife a few inches above
the small bar on which the user's weight was supported by both hands. Of
the cutting there could be no manner of doubt. The jagged edges of the
few strands left by a devilish ingenuity--so that the swing must need be
in violent motion before the rope snapped--were clearly visible at the
point of severance. But who had done this thing, and with what deadly
object in view? And why did Elsie pitch on Angele Saumarez so readily,
glaring at her with such eyes of vengeance that the vicar was
constrained to order, with the utmost sternness of which he was
capable, that the torrent of words should cease. Indeed, he dispatched
her to acquaint the Bollands with tidings of the disaster as a haphazard
pretext to get her out of the way. Apart from sensing the accident's
inexplicable motive, its history was simple enough.
Before tea was served, Martin and Elsie were using the swing
alternately, vying with each other in the effort to touch with their
toes the leaves of a tree nearly twenty feet distant from the vertical
line of the rope. Angele, of course, took no part in this contest; she
contented herself with a sarcastic incredulity when Elsie vowed that she
had accomplished the feat twice already.
Martin, stronger, but less skilled in the trick of the swing than the
girl, strove hard to excel her. Yet he, too, fell short by a few inches
time after time. At last, Elsie vowed that when she was rested after tea
she would prove her words, and threw a pebble at the branch which she
claimed to have reached a week ago.
Neither Mrs. Saumarez nor the vicar attached any weight to the somewhat
emphatic argument between the two girls. It was a splendid contest
between Martin and Elsie. It interested the elders for conflicting
reasons.
To see the graceful girl propelling herself through the air in a curve
of nearly forty feet at each pendulum stroke of the swing was a pleasing
sight to her father, but it caused Mrs. Saumarez to regret again that
her daughter had not been taught to think more of athletic exercises and
less of dress.
While the young people were following their seniors to the drawing-room,
Angele said to Elsie:
"I think I could do that myself with a little practice."
"You are not tall enough," was the uncompromising answer, for Elsie's
temper was ruffled by the simpering unbelief with which the other
treated her assurances.
"Not so tall, no; but I can bend back like this, and you cannot."
Without a second's hesitation Angele twisted her head and shoulders
around until her chin was in a line with her heels. Then she dropped
lightly so that her hands rested on the grass of the lawn, straightening
herself with equal ease. The contortion was performed so quickly that
neither Mr. Herbert nor Mrs. Saumarez was aware of it. It was a display
not suited to the conditions of ordinary costume, and it necessarily
exhibited portions of the attire not usually in evidence.
Martin had eyes only for the girl's acrobatic agility, but Elsie
blushed.
"I don't like that," she said.
"I can stand on my head and walk on my hands," cried Angele instantly.
"Martin, some day I'll show you."
Conscious though she was that these things were said to annoy her, Elsie
remembered that Angele was a guest.
"How did you learn?" she asked. "Were you taught in school?"
"School! Me! I have never been to school. Education is the curse of
children's lives. I never leave mamma. One day in Nice I saw a circus
girl doing tricks of that sort. I practiced in my bedroom."
"Does your mother wish that?"
"She doesn't know."
"I wonder you haven't broken your neck," said the practical Martin, who
felt his bones creaking at the mere notion of such twisting.
Angele laughed.
"It is quite easy, when you are slim and elegant."
Her vanity amused the boy.
"You speak as though Elsie were as stiff as a board," he said. "If you
had watched her carefully, Angele, you would have seen that she is quite
as supple as you, only in a different way. And she is strong, too. I
dare say she could swing with one hand and carry you in the other, if
she had a mind to try."
This ready advocacy of a new-found divinity angered Angele beyond
measure. Possibly she meant no greater harm than the disconcerting of a
rival; but she slipped out of the room when Mr. Herbert sent Elsie to
the library to bring a portfolio of old prints which he wished to show
Mrs. Saumarez. Although it was never definitely proved against Angele,
someone tampered with the rope before a move was made to the garden
after tea. The cause, the effect, were equally clear; the human agent
remained unknown.
"Now, I'll prove my words," cried Elsie, darting across the lawn in
front of the others.
"Here, it's my turn," shouted the boy gleefully. "I'll race you."
"Martin! Martin! I want you!" shrieked Angele, running after him.
He paid no heed to her cries. Outstripping both girls in the race, he
sprang at the swing, and was carried almost to the debated limit of the
tree by the impetus of the rush. When he felt himself stopping he threw
up his feet in a wild effort to touch the leaves so tantalizingly out
of reach, and in that instant the rope broke.
He turned completely over and fell with a heavy thud on the back of his
bent head. The screaming of the girls brought the vicar from his prints
in great alarm, and his agitation increased when he discovered that the
boy could neither move nor speak.
Elsie was halfway to the White House before Martin regained his breath.
Once vitality returned, however, he was quickly on his feet again.
"What happened?" he asked, craning his head awkwardly. "I thought
someone fired a gun!"
"You frightened us nearly out of our wits," cried the vicar. "And I was
stupid enough to send Elsie flying to your people. Goodness knows what
she will have said to them!"
Promptly the boy shook himself and tried to break into a run.
"I must--follow her," he gasped. But not yet was the masterful spirit
able to control relaxed muscles; he collapsed again.
Mrs. Saumarez cried aloud in a new fear, but the vicar, accustomed to
the minor accidents of the cricket field and gymnasium, was cooler now.
"He's all right--only needs a drink of water and a few minutes' rest,"
he explained.
He bade one of the maids go as quickly as possible to the Bollands' farm
and say that the mischief to Martin was a mere nothing, and then busied
himself in more scientific fashion with restoring his patient's
animation.
Unfastening the boy's collar and the neckband of his shirt, Mr. Herbert
satisfied himself that the clavicle was uninjured. There was a slight
abrasion of the scalp, which was sore to the touch. In a minute, or
less, Martin was again protesting that there was little the matter with
him. He would not be satisfied until the vicar allowed him to start once
more for the village, though at a more sedate pace.
Then Mrs. Saumarez, in a voice of deep distress, asked Mr. Herbert if
the rope had really been cut.
"Yes," he said. "You can see yourself that there is no doubt about it."
"But your daughter charged Angele with this--this crime. My child denies
it. She has no knife or implement of any sort in her pocket. I assure
you I have satisfied myself on that point."
"The affair is a mystery, Mrs. Saumarez. It must be cleared up. Thank
God, Martin escaped! He might be lying here dead at this moment."
"Are you sure it was not an accident?"
"What am I to say? Here is a stout hempen cord with nearly all its
strands severed as if with a razor, and the other torn asunder. And,
from what I can gather, it was Elsie, and not Martin, for whose benefit
this diabolical outrage was planned."
The vicar spoke warmly, but the significance of the incident was dawning
slowly on his perplexed mind. Providence alone had ordained that neither
the boy nor the girl had been gravely, perhaps fatally, injured.
Mrs. Saumarez was haggard. She seemed to have aged in those few minutes.
"Angele!" she cried.
The girl, who was sobbing, came to her.
"Can it be possible," said the distracted mother, "that you interfered
with the swing? Why did you leave the drawing-room during tea?"
"I only went to stroke a cat, mamma. Indeed, I never touched the swing.
Why should I? And I could not cut it with my fingers."
"On second thoughts," said the vicar coldly, "I think that the matter
may be allowed to rest where it is. Of course, one of my servants may be
the culprit, or a mischievous village youth who had been watching the
children at play. But the two girls do not seem to get on well together,
Mrs. Saumarez. I fear they are endowed with widely different
temperaments."
The hint could not be ignored. The lady smiled bitterly.
"It is well that I should have decided already to leave Elmsdale," she
said. "It is a charming place, but my visit has not been altogether
fortunate."
Mr. Herbert remembered the curious phrase in after years. He understood
it then. At the moment he was candidly relieved when Mrs. Saumarez and
Angele took their departure. He jammed on a hat and hastened to the
White House to learn what sort of sensation Elsie had created.
A week later he made a discovery. He had a curious hobby--he was his own
bootmaker, and Elsie's, having taught himself to be a craftsman in an
art which might well claim higher rank than it holds. When next he
rummaged among his implements for a shoemaker's knife it was missing. It
was found in the garden next spring, jammed to the top of the hilt into
the soft mold beneath a rhododendron. The tools were kept on a bench in
the conservatory; so Angele might have accomplished her impish desire in
a few seconds.
On reaching the White House he was mildly surprised at finding Martin
propped against the knee of a tall, soldierly stranger, who was
consoling the boy with a reminiscence of a far worse toss at polo, by
which a hard _sola topi_ was flattened on the iron surface of an Indian
_maidan_. Elsie, white, but much interested, was sipping a glass of
milk.
"Eh, Vicar," cried Mrs. Bolland, in whose face Mr. Herbert saw signs of
recent excitement, "your lass gev us a rare start. She landed here like
a mad thing, screamed oot that Martin was dead, an' dropped te t' flure
half dead herself."
"The fault was mine, Mrs. Bolland. There was an accident. At first I
thought Martin was badly hurt. I am, indeed, very sorry if Elsie alarmed
you."
His words were meant to reassure the others, but his eyes were fixed on
the girl's pallid face. John Bolland laughed in his dry way.
"Nay, Passon, dinnat fret aboot Elsie. She's none t' warse for a sudden
stop. She was ower-excited. Where's yon lass o' Mrs. Saumarez's?"
"Gone home with her mother. I hear they are leaving Elmsdale."
"A good riddance!" said John heartily. He turned to Martin. "Ye'll be
winded again, I reckon?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I left my ash stick i' t' low yard. Mebbe you an' t' young leddy
will fetch it. There's noa need te hurry."
This was an oblique instruction to the boy to make himself scarce for
half an hour. With Elsie as a companion he needed no urging. They set
off, happy as grigs.
"Noo, afore ye start te fill t' vicar wi' wunnerment," cried Martha, "I
want te ax t' colonel a question."
"What is it, Mrs. Bolland?"
Colonel Grant was smiling at the vicar's puzzled air. These good people
knew naught of formal introductions.
"How old is t' lad?"
"He was fourteen years old on the sixth of last June."
"Eh, but that's grand." She clapped her hands delightedly. "I guessed
him tiv a week or two. We reckoned his birthday as a twel'month afore we
found him, and that was June the eighteenth. And what's his right neaem?"
"He was christened after me and after his mother's family. His name is
Reginald Ingram Grant."
"May I ask who in the world you are talking about?" interposed the
perplexed vicar.
"Wheae? Why, oor Martin!" cried Martha. "He's a gentleman born, God bless
him!"
"And, what is much more important, Mrs. Bolland, he is a gentleman
bred," said the colonel.
* * * * *
The scene in the kitchen of the White House had been too dramatic that
some hint of it should not reach the village that night. Soon all
Elmsdale knew that the mystery of Martin's parentage had been solved,
and great was the awe of the boy's playmates when they heard that his
father was a "real live colonel i' t' army." A garbled version of the
story came to Mr. Beckett-Smythe's ears, and he called on Colonel Grant
at the "Black Lion" next day.
He arrived in state, in a new Mercedes car, handled by a chauffeur
replica of Fritz Bauer. Beckett-Smythe had hardly mastered his surprise
at the colonel's confirmation of that which he had regarded as "an
incredible yarn" when Mrs. Saumarez drove up. She, too, recalling the
message brought by Martin from her husband's comrade-in-arms, came to
verify the strange tale told by the Misses Walker. Angele accompanied
her, and the girl's eyes shot lightning at Martin, who was on the point
of guiding his father to the moor when Mr. Beckett-Smythe put in an
appearance.
The lawyer had departed for London by the morning train; the three older
people and the two youngsters gathered in the room thus set at liberty,
Mrs. Atkinson having remodeled it into a sitting-room for the colonel's
use.
Mrs. Saumarez hailed the stranger effusively.
"It is delightful to run across anyone who knew my husband," she said.
"In this remote part of Yorkshire none seems to have ever heard of him.
Believe me, Colonel Grant, it is positively a relief to meet a man who
recognizes my name."
She may have intended this for an oblique thrust at Beckett-Smythe,
relations between the Hall and The Elms having been somewhat strained
since the inquest. The Squire, a good fellow, who had no inkling of
Angele's latest escapade, hastened to make amends.
"You two must want to chat over old times," he said breezily. "Why not
come and dine with me to-night? I have only one other guest--an
Admiralty man. He's prowling about the coast trying to select a
suitable site for a wireless station."
Now, Mrs. Saumarez would have declined the invitation had Beckett-Smythe
stopped short at the first sentence. As it was, she accepted instantly.
"Do come, Colonel Grant," she urged. "What between the Navy and the
Intelligence Department it should be an interesting evening.... Oh,
don't look so surprised," she went on, with an engaging smile. "I still
read the _Gazette_, you know."
"And what of the kiddies?" said Beckett-Smythe. "They know my boys. Your
chauffeur can bring them home at nine. By the way, the meal will be
quite informal--come as you are."
"What do you say, Martin?" said the colonel.
"I shall be very pleased, sir; but may I--ask--my mother first?"
The boy reddened. His new place in the world was only twenty-four hours
old, and his ideas were not yet adjusted to an order of things so
astounding that he thought every minute he would wake up and find he had
been dreaming.
"Oh, certainly," and a kindly hand fell on his shoulder. "I am glad you
spoke of it. Mrs. Bolland is worthy of all the respect due to the best
of mothers."
"I'll go with you, Martin," announced Angele suddenly.
Martin hesitated. He was doubtful of the reception Mrs. Bolland might
give the minx who had nearly caused him to break his neck, and, for his
own part, he wanted to avoid Angele altogether. She was a disturbing
influence. He feared her not at all as a spitfire. It was when she
displayed her most engaging qualities that she was really dangerous, and
he knew from experience that her mood had changed within the past five
minutes. On alighting from the car she would like to have scratched his
face. Now he would not be surprised if she elected to walk with him hand
in hand through the village street.
His father came to the rescue.
"Let us all go and see Mrs. Bolland," he said. "It is only a few yards."
They went out into the roadway. Then Beckett-Smythe was struck by an
afterthought.
"If you'll excuse me, I'll run along to the vicarage and ask Herbert and
his daughter to join us," he said.
Mrs. Saumarez bit her lip.
"I think I'll leave Angele at home," she said in a low tone. "The child
is delicate. During the past week I have insisted that she goes to bed
at eight every evening."
Colonel Grant understood why the lady did not want the two girls to
meet, but it was borne in on him that she herself was determined not to
miss that impromptu dinner party. In a vague way he wondered what her
motive could be.
"Ah, that's a pity," he heard Beckett-Smythe say. "She can be well
wrapped up, and the weather is mild."
He moved a little ahead of the two. Martin, determined not to be left
alone with Angele, hastened to greet his friend, Fritz. The two
chauffeurs were conversing in German. Apparently, they were examining
the engine of the new car.
"Martin," murmured Angele, "don't bother about Fritz. He'll snap your
head off. He's furious because he lost a map the other day."
But Martin pressed on. No longer could Angele deceive him--"twiddle him
around her little finger," as she would put it.
"Hello, Fritz!" he cried. "What map did you lose? Not the one I marked
for you?"
Fritz turned. The new chauffeur closed the bonnet of the engine.
"No," he said, speaking slowly, and looking at Angele. "It was a small
road map. You haf not seen it, I dink."
"Was it made of linen, with a red cover?"
"Yez," and the man's face became curiously stern.
"Oh, I saw you studying it one day at The Elms, but you didn't have it
on the moor."
Fritz's scowl changed to an expression of disappointment.
"I haf mislaid it," he grunted, and again his glance dwelt on Angele,
who met his gaze with a bland indifference that seemed to gall him.
Colonel Grant drew near. He had been eyeing the two spick-and-span
chauffeurs.
"Who is your friend, Martin?" he said. He was interested in everything
the boy did and in everyone whom he knew.
"Oh, this is Fritz Bauer, Mrs. Saumarez's chauffeur.... Fritz, this is
Colonel Grant, of the Indian Army."
Instantly the two young Germans straightened as though some mechanism
had stiffened their spines and thrown back their heads. The newcomer's
heels clicked and his right hand was raised in a salute. Fritz, better
schooled than his comrade by longer residence in England, barely
prevented his heels from clicking, and managed to convert the salute
into a raising of his cap. There could be no doubt that he was
flustered, because he said not a word, and the open-air tan of his
cheeks assumed a deeper tint.
Apparently, Colonel Grant saw nothing of this, or, if he noticed the
man's confusion, attributed it to nervousness.
"Two Mercedes cars in one small village!" he exclaimed laughingly. "You
Germans are certainly conquering England by peaceful penetration."
Mrs. Saumarez elected, after all, not to visit the White House that
afternoon, so Angele, having said good-by to the colonel and Martin in
her prettiest manner, was whisked off in the car.
"By the way, Martin," said his father as the two walked to the farm.
"Mrs. Saumarez is German by birth. Have you ever heard anything about
her family?"
Martin had a good memory.
"Yes, sir," he said. "She is a baroness--the Baroness Irma von
Edelstein."
The colonel was surprised at this glib answer.
"Who told you?" he inquired.
"Angele, sir. But Mrs. Saumarez did not wish people to use her title.
She was vexed with Angele for even mentioning it."
Mrs. Saumarez sent her car to bring Colonel Grant and his son to the
Hall. She was slightly ruffled when Fritz told her that they had gone
already, Mr. Beckett-Smythe having collected his guests from both the
inn and the vicarage.
She might have been positively indignant if she had overheard Grant's
comments to the Admiralty official while the two strolled on the lawn
before dinner.
"A couple of Prussian officers, if ever I saw the genuine article," said
the colonel. "Real junkers--smart-looking fellows, too. Mrs. Saumarez is
the widow of a British officer--a fine chap, but poor as a church
mouse--and she belongs to a wealthy German family. _Verbum sap._"
"Nuff said," grinned the sailor. "But what is one to do? No sooner is
this outfit erected but it'll be added to the display of local picture
postcards, and the next German bigwig who visits this part of the
country will be invited to amuse himself by ringing up Bremen."
At any rate, Mrs. Saumarez was told that night that the Yorkshire coast
was too highly magnetized to suit a wireless station. The sailor thought
an inland town like York would provide an ideal site.
"You see," he explained politely, "when the German High Seas Fleet
defeats the British Navy it can shell our coast towns all to
smithereens."
She smiled.
"You fighting men invariably talk of war with Germany as an assured
thing," she said. "Yet I, who know Germany, and have relatives there, am
convinced that the notion is absurd."
"The Emperor has been twenty years on the throne and has never drawn
sword except on parade," put in the vicar. "There may have been danger
once or twice in his hot youth, but he has grown to like England, and I
cannot conceive him plunging a great and thriving country into the
morass of a doubtful campaign."
"Ninety-nine per cent of Englishmen like to think that way," said the
Admiralty man. "In a multitude of counselors there is wisdom, so let's
hope they're right."
When the young folk got together on the terrace, Frank Beckett-Smythe
asked Martin why his neck was stiff.
"I took a toss off Elsie's swing yesterday," was the airy answer. Not a
word did he or Elsie say as to Angele, and the Beckett-Smythes knew
better than to introduce her name.
* * * * *
Mrs. Saumarez left for the South rather hurriedly. She paid no farewell
visits. She and Angele traveled in the car; Francoise followed with the
baggage. The Misses Walker were consoled for the loss of a valued lodger
by receiving a less exacting one in the person of Martin's father.
The boy himself, when his mental poise was adjusted to the phenomenal
change in his life, soon grew accustomed to a new environment. Mr.
Herbert undertook to direct his studies in preparation for a public
school, and Martha Bolland became reconciled gradually to seeing him
once or twice daily, instead of all day, for he, too, lived at The Elms.
Officially, as it were, he adopted his new name, but to the small world
of Elmsdale he would ever be "Martin." Even his father fell into the
habit.
The colonel drove him to the adjourned petty sessions at Nottonby when
Betsy's case came on for hearing. Mr. Stockwell abandoned his critical
attitude and concurred with the police that there was no need to bring
Angele Saumarez from London to attend the trial. Mrs. Saumarez gave no
thought to the fact that the girl might be needed to give evidence, but
the authorities decided that there were witnesses in plenty as to the
outcry raised in the garden after Pickering was wounded.
It was November before Betsy appeared at the county assizes. When she
entered the dock, those who knew her were astonished by the improvement
in her appearance. It was probable that the enforced rest, the regular
exercise, the judicious diet of the prison had exercised a beneficial
effect on her health.
Her demeanor was calm as ever, and the able barrister who defended her
did not scruple to suggest that it would create a better effect with the
jury if she adopted a less unemotional attitude.
Her reply silenced him.
"Do you think," she said, "that I will be permitted to atone for my
wrongdoing by punishment? No. I live because my husband wished me to
live. I will be called to account, but not by an earthly judge or jury."
She was right. The assize judge held the scales of justice impartially
between the sworn testimony of George Pickering and Betsy's witnesses,
on the one hand, and the evidence of Martin and the groom, backed by the
scientists, on the other.
The jury gave her the benefit of the doubt and acquitted her, but it was
noticed by many that his lordship contented himself with ordering her
discharge from custody. He passed no opinion on the verdict.
So Betsy was installed as mistress of Wetherby Lodge, the trustees
having decided that she was well fitted to manage the estate.
Tongues wagged in Elmsdale when Mr. Stockwell drove thither one day and
solemnly handed over to Martin the sword and the double-barreled gun,
and to John Bolland the pedigree cow bequeathed by George Pickering.
The farmer eyed the animal grimly.
"'Tis an unfortunate beast," he said. "Mebbe if I hadn't sold her te
poor George he might nivver hae coom te Elmsdale just then."
"Do not think that," the solicitor assured him. "Pickering would most
certainly have visited the fair. I know, as a matter of fact, that he
wished to purchase one of your brood mares."
"Ay, ay. She went te Jarmany. Well, if I'm spared, I'll send a good calf
to Wetherby."
The lawyer and he shook hands on the compact. Yet Pickering's odd
bequest was destined to work out in a way that would have amazed the
donor, could he but know it.
Martin was at Winchester--his father's old school--when he received a
letter in Bolland's laborious handwriting. It read:
"MY DEAR LAD--Yours to hand, and this leaves your mother and self
in good health. We were glad to hear that the box arrived all right
and that your mates think well of Yorkshire cakes. You may learn a
lot of useful things at school, but you will not often meet with a
better cook than your mother. She is sore upset just now about a
mishap we have had on the farm. I turned out nearly all my
shorthorns to graze on the low pastures. The ground was a bit damp,
and a strange cow broke in at night to join them. I don't rightly
know what to blame, but next day they showed signs of rinderpest. I
sent for the vet, and they had to be slaughtered--all but one
two-year-old bull, Bainesse Boy IV., and Mr. Pickering's cow, which
were not with them in the meadow. It is a great loss, but I don't
repine, now that you are provided for, and it is not quite like
starting all over again, as I have my land and my Cleveland bays,
and I am in no debt. In such matters I turn to the Lord for
consolation. I have just read this verse to Martha: 'I have been
young, and now am old; yet I have not seen the righteous forsaken,
nor his seed begging bread.' If you are minded to look it up, you
will find it in the Thirty-seventh Psalm.
"I don't want to pretend that the blow has not been a hard one,
but, God willing, there will be a hamper for you at Christmas, if
Colonel Grant is too busy to bring you North. Your mother joins in
much love.
"Your affect.,
"JOHN BOLLAND."
"P. S.--Maybe you will not have forgotten that Mrs. Saumarez said
the land needed draining. She was a clever woman in some ways."
The boy's eyes filled with tears. He understood only too well the
far-reaching misfortune which had befallen the farmer. The total value
of the herd was L5,000, and he remembered that experts valued the young
surviving bull at L300 as a yearling. In all, twenty-three animals had
been slaughtered by the law's decree, and the compensation payable to
Bolland would not cover a twentieth part of the actual loss.
Martin not only wrote a letter of warm sympathy to his adopted parents
but sent Bolland's letter to his father, with an added commentary of his
own. Colonel Grant obtained short leave and traveled to Elmsdale next
day. It took some trouble to bring John round to his point of view, but
the argument that the farm should be restocked in Martin's interests
prevailed, and negotiations were opened with prominent breeders
elsewhere which resulted in the purchase of a notable bull and eight
heifers, for which Bolland and the colonel each found half the money.
The farmer would listen to no other arrangement, though he promised that
if he experienced any tightness for money he would not hesitate to apply
for further help.
The need never made itself felt. The first animal to produce successful
progeny was George Pickering's cow! No man in the North Riding was more
pleased than John that day. Throughout the whole of his life the only
person who ever brought a charge of unfair dealing against him was
Pickering. The memory rankled, and its sting was none the less bitter
because of a secret dread that he had perhaps been guilty of a piece of
sharp practice. Now his character was cleared.
Pattison, his old crony, asked him, by way of a joke, how much "he'd
tak' for t' cauf."
John blazed into unexpected anger.
"At what figger de you reckon yer own good neaem, Mr. Pattison?"
"I don't knoae as I'd care te sell it at onny price, Mr. Bollan'."
"Then ye'll think as I do aboot yon cauf. Neyther it nor any other of
its dam's produce will ivver leave my farm if I can help it."