The two boys had proceeded a very little way, when they heard loud screams in the meadow which they had just left.
“There now, Archibald!” said Harold; “I guess what is the matter; you have made the bull so angry, that he is running at somebody.”
He immediately ran back towards the gate: Archibald stood still a moment; and then walked, not very quickly, after his brother.
When Harold came to the gate, he saw a little girl running towards it, and the bull trotting after her at an ambling pace: he jumped over the gate, and snatching up a bush of furze that had been cut from the hedge, ran towards the bull; as soon as the creature saw him, and perceived that he did not appear at all frightened, he stood still, and bellowed. Harold had come up with the little girl,—it was Betsey Webb,—widow Webb’s grand-daughter.
“Run along to the gate, Betsey;” said he. As soon as he saw that the little girl was safely over the gate, he retreated some steps; still holding up the furze bush, and looking hard at the bull, which stopped when Harold stopped; and advanced as he retreated; in this way he got to the gate; and jumping over, was not sorry to find himself safely out of the meadow.
Betsey Webb was crying from the fright she had suffered; and partly, perhaps, with the feeling of gratitude to her courageous defender. As soon as she was a little more composed, Harold asked her how it had happened that the bull had run at her.
“I don’t know, Master Harold,” said she, “because I go through the meadow almost every day; and it never did me no harm before; and Farmer Holt tells grandmother that it is always a gentle beast: else he would not let it be there. But I think some of the bad boys must have been teasing of it, and making it angry: and now I shall be afraid to go through the mead any more; I must go all round by the road.”
“You must tell Farmer Holt,” replied Harold; “that the bull run at you; and perhaps he will put it into another field.”
Here Betsey courtesied, saying, “Thank ye, Master Harold, I’m sure; thank’ee:” and then turned across the common, towards her grandmother’s cottage.
Archibald had been loitering a little way behind; and whistled, as though he felt quite unconcerned. But when Betsey Webb was gone, he begged his brother not to tell at home, what had happened. “Tell,” said Harold, “no to be sure, I don’t know what there is particular to tell.”