“We'll fix that. On second thoughts, think I'll take the cream with the milk—just whenever I can get it.”
The little creature was as smooth as satin, and quite plump. To Tom's charge she fell, and he milked her each day as he promised he would, and she soon became known as “Tom's cow.”' She seemed quite at home.
One hot and sultry day, when they had traveled with considerable speed, Tom's prize showed signs of exhaustion. At last she could go no farther, but lay down, hot, tired and footsore, at a cross roads.
“We'd better let her rest and then we'll come back after her,” Jim Cleary said.
“That's the best thing we can do, I believe.” So the animal was left where she had dropped, and the drove kept on till they found a place where they could feed and rest for the night.
As soon as it began to grow dark Tom and his companion started back to where they had left the cow. She was not there, but a woman sitting outside of quite a pretentious, two-story house, informed them that a man who lived “down the cross road a piece” had driven her to his own home.
“We'll have to get her back, Tom, for she's quite an acquisition to our larder.”
It was quite dark when they reached the place to which they had been directed. It was a weather-beaten old log house, with one room down stairs to serve the family, and an attic or loft above. Rapping at the door, they heard a gruff voice bid them enter. By the dim light of a sputtering candle they saw a rough, poorly dressed man and a woman sitting at a table which had no cloth, on which was some corn bread and sorghum. The mother held a puny, sickly little girl in her arms, whose big eyes roved restlessly around, as if wondering who the strangers were. A tin cup stood by her plate, full of milk.
“Strangers, what ar' yer business?” The man's threatening countenance seemed to demand an instant reply.
“We are looking for a cow we've lost.”