"Good heavens! A mad bull!" I cried, "tearing this way at a furious
pace."
Shin Shira sprang to the opening.
"I'll attract him in another direction, and while he is after me you all
escape over the fence," he cried hurriedly, and snatching a red silk
handkerchief from Lionel's pocket, he rushed out into the open.
The bull paused, and though I frantically shouted to Shin Shira to come
back, the brave little fellow flourished the red handkerchief to attract
the creature's attention. With a bellow of anger the infuriated animal,
holding his head down, tore after the Dwarf, who ran with surprising
swiftness in the opposite direction to the marquee.
[Illustration]
"Now children, quickly!" I cried, catching Lady Betty by the hand, and
we all made for the fence as quickly as possible.
We were no sooner in safety than we turned to see how our gallant little
friend was faring.
The yellow figure, still waving the red handkerchief, was running ahead
of the bull, but to our great distress we could see that the beast was
gaining on him.
"Oh dear! he'll never reach the other side in time," cried Marjorie,
hiding her eyes in her hands and sinking to the ground in a panic of
fear and fright.
Presently the boys gave an excited shout--"Hurrah! Bravo!" they cried,
jumping from the fence and skipping about, tossing their caps into the
air in an excess of relief. I sat down beside Marjorie and explained to
her what had happened.
The bull was rapidly gaining on Shin Shira and the little fellow was
becoming exhausted, when, by a happy chance, at that very moment he
began to disappear, and before the bull could reach him he had vanished
altogether.
The bull was rushing frantically about, bellowing and snorting and
looking in vain for him, and at last, turning his attention to the
marquee, he dashed into it, ripping up the canvas and over-turning the
table, smashing the dishes, and altogether making a most terrific
commotion.
Now that we were all safe we could make light of the loss of the
marquee and its contents, and could even smile at the quaint remark of
Lady Betty when she said solemnly--
"In future I shall prefer to picnic where there are spiders, instead of
where mad bulls are about. In fact, I shall rather like spiders after
this: they're so gentle and don't bellow at all."
The boys were still watching the havoc which the bull was creating, when
they noticed a man walking towards us beside the fence.
He was a big, burly farmer and looked very angry.
"Now then," he cried, in a surly voice, "what do you mean by all this?"
"I don't understand you," I answered.
"I speak plain English, don't I?" he said. "Wasn't it you that's been
trampling in my long grass, and building tents and what not on private
property? I'll learn you that I won't have no strangers in my meadows, I
can tell ye."
"I'm very sorry if I've done any harm," said I, "and I'm sure if--"
"_If_ you've done any harm!" shouted the farmer. "Look at all that long
grass trampled down all over the meadow."
"Yes," I interrupted, "but it was your bull which did that."
"He wouldn't have done it if you hadn't teased him," said the farmer
obstinately. "I saw one of you myself teasing him with a red rag and
making him furious. I'm not going to have any of it. Off you come with
me to the police station."
"No, no, I can't do that," I cried in alarm; "I have these children with
me."
"People shouldn't take children out if they can't do without getting
into mischief," grumbled the farmer. "No, you come along of me," and he
caught hold of my arm.
"I'll give you my card," I said, "and if you have any serious complaint
to make you can write to me."
"Aye, a likely story; and when I write to you, as likely as not I'll
find you've given me a wrong address."
"Come back with me then to the inn: they know me there and will tell you
whether or no the address is a correct one."
The old farmer was gradually persuaded to this course, though he
grumbled all the way there that I ought to be "locked up," while the
children, thoroughly subdued, walked in silence behind us.
"You'll have to pay a pretty penny for damages," said he warningly, when
he had satisfied himself at the inn that I was known as "a gentleman
who often drove over there in the summer, and always paid for what he
had."
I assured him that he should have what was just, and when he had gone I
ordered tea in the arbour at the end of the old-fashioned garden, and
over it we forgot the unfortunate, but exciting, termination to our
picnic.
We arrived home quite safely. Sure enough, a few days afterwards I
received a preposterous claim for damage to the farmer's grass, which I
left my solicitor to deal with; and more extraordinary still, I had a
claim from Messrs. Piggott & Son for damages to a tent, which they
"could not trace as having been hired to me, but which I must have hired
at some time or another, since it bore their name marked as they only
marked their tents let out on hire."
This letter also went to my solicitor, and to this day I've heard
nothing further about either matter.