Mrs. Bindle Part 34

In front of the house the party paused. Nowhere was anyone to be seen.

An old cart with its shafts pointing heavenward stood on the borders of a duck pond, green with slime.

The place was muddy and unclean, and Mrs. Bindle, with a look of disgust, drew up her skirts almost to the tops of her elastic-sided boots.

Bindle looked about him with interest. A hen appeared round the corner of the house, gazed at the newcomers for a few seconds, her head on one side, then disappeared from whence she had come.

Ducks stood on their heads in the water, or quacked comfortably as they swam about, apparently either oblivious or indifferent to the fact that there were callers.

From somewhere in the distance could be heard the sound of a horse stamping in its stall.

At the end of five minutes an old man appeared carrying a pail. At the sight of strangers, he stopped dead, his s...o...b..ring lips gaping in surprise.

"Can I see Mr. Timkins?" enquired Mr. Hearty, in refined but woolly tones.

"Farmer be over there wi' Bessie. I tell un she'll foal' fore night; but 'e will 'ave it she won't. 'E'll see. 'E will," he added with the air of a fatalist.

Mr. Hearty turned aside and became interested in the ducks, whilst Mrs.

Bindle flushed a deep vermilion. Bindle said nothing; but watched with enjoyment the confusion of the others.

The man stared at them, puzzled to account for their conduct.

"Where did you say Mr. Timkins was to be found?" enquired Mr. Hearty.

"I just tell ee, in the stable wi' Bessie. 'E says she won't foal; but I know she will. Why she----"

Mr. Hearty did not wait for further information; but turned and made for what, from the motion of the man's head, he took to be the stable.

The others followed.

"No, not there," yelled the man, as if he were addressing someone in the next field. "Turn round to left o' that there muck 'eap."

A convulsive shudder pa.s.sed over Mr. Hearty's frame. He was appalled at the coa.r.s.eness engendered by an agricultural existence. He hurried on so that he should not have to meet Mrs. Bindle's eye.

At that moment Farmer Timkins was seen approaching. He was a short, red-faced man in a bob-tailed coat with large flapped-pockets, riding-breeches and gaiters. In his hand he carried a crop which, at the sight of Mrs. Bindle, he raised to his hat in salutation.

"Mornin'."

"Good afternoon," said Mr. Hearty genteelly.

The farmer fixed his eyes upon Mr. Hearty's emaciated sallowness, with all the superiority of one who knows that he is a fine figure of a man.

"It was you that upset Oscar, wasn't it?" There was more accusation than welcome in his tone.

"Upset Oscar?" enquired Mr. Hearty, nervously looking from the farmer to Mrs. Bindle, then back again to the farmer.

"Yes, my bull," explained Mr. Timkins.

"It was Oscar wot nearly upset pore old 'Earty," grinned Bindle.

"A savage beast like that ought to be shot," cried Mrs. Bindle, gazing squarely at the farmer. "It nearly killed----"

"Ought to be shot!" repeated the farmer, a dull flush rising to his face. "Shoot Oscar! Are you mad, ma'am?" he demanded, making an obvious effort to restrain his anger.

"Don't you dare to insult me," she cried. "You set that savage brute on to Mr. Hearty and it nearly killed him. I shall report you to the bishop--and--and--to the police," she added as an after-thought. "You ought to be prosecuted."

Mrs. Bindle's lips had disappeared into a grey line, her face was very white, particularly at the corners of the mouth. For nearly two hours she had restrained herself. Now that she was face to face with the owner of the bull that had nearly plunged her into mourning, her anger burst forth.

The farmer looked from one to the other in bewilderment.

"Report me to the police," he repeated dully. "What----"

"Yes, and I will too," cried Mrs. Bindle, interpreting the farmer's strangeness of manner as indicative of fear. "Mad bulls are always shot."

The farmer focussed his gaze upon Mrs. Bindle, as if she belonged to a new species. His anger had vanished. He was overcome by surprise that anyone should be so ignorant of bulls and their ways as to believe Oscar mad.

"Why, ma'am, Oscar's no more mad than you or me. He's just a bit fresh.

Most times he's as gentle as a lamb."

"Don't talk to me about lambs," cried Mrs. Bindle, now thoroughly roused. "With my own eyes I saw it chasing Mr. Hearty across the field.

It's a wonder he wasn't killed. I shall insist upon the animal being destroyed."

The farmer turned to Bindle, as if for an explanation of such strange views upon bulls in general and Oscar in particular.

"Oscar's all right, Lizzie," said Bindle pacifically. "'E only wanted to play tag with 'Earty."

"You be quiet!" cried Mrs. Bindle. She felt that she already had the enemy well beaten and in terror of prosecution.

"I suppose," she continued, turning once more to Mr. Timkins, "you want to hide the fact that you're keeping a mad bull until you can turn it into beef and send it to market; but----"

"Turn Oscar into beef!" roared the farmer. "Why, G.o.d dang my boots, ma'am, you're crazy! I wouldn't sell Oscar for a thousand pounds."

"I thought so," said Mrs. Bindle, looking across at Mr. Hearty, who was feeling intensely uncomfortable, "and people are to be chased about the country and murdered just because you won't----"

"But dang it, ma'am! there isn't a bull like Oscar for twenty miles round. Last year I had--let me see, how many calves----"

"Don't be disgusting," she cried, whilst Mr. Hearty turned his head aside, and coughed modestly into his right hand.

Mr. Timkins gazed from one to the other in sheer amazement, whilst Bindle, who had so manoeuvred as to place himself behind Mrs. Bindle, caught the farmer's eye and tapped his forehead significantly.

The simple action seemed to have a magical effect upon Mr. Timkins. His anger disappeared and his customary bluff geniality returned.

He acknowledged Bindle's signal with a wink, then he turned to Mrs.

Bindle.

"You see, ma'am, this is all my land, and I let the bishop have his camp----"

"That doesn't excuse you for keeping a mad bull," was the uncompromising retort. The life of her hero had been endangered, and Mrs. Bindle was not to be placated by words.

"But Oscar ain't mad," protested the farmer, taking off his hat and mopping his forehead with a large coloured-handkerchief he had drawn from his tail-pocket. "I tell you he's no more mad than what I am."