“Don't I hear that Thompson has an ointment that cures the red scab?”
“So they say.”
George whistled to his pony. The pony came to him. George did not treat him as we are apt to treat a horse—like a riding machine. He used to speak to him and caress him when he fed him and when he made his bed, and the horse followed him about like a dog.
In half an hour's sharp riding they were at Thompson's, an invaluable man that sold and bought animals, doctored animals, and kept a huge boiler in which bullocks were reduced to a few pounds of grease in a very few hours.
“You have an ointment that is good for the scab, sir?”
“That I have, farmer. Sold some to a neighbor of yours day before yesterday.”
“Who was that?”
“A newcomer. Vesey is his name.”
George groaned. “How do you use it, if you please?”
“Shear 'em close, rub the ointment well in, wash 'em every two days, and rub in again.”