“Yes.”
“Perhaps it is because I have not courage to kiss your—Galatea, why did you kiss my cheek in the wood-road?”
A series of throaty bellows were wafted to their ears from the direction of the stone fence at the bottom of the meadow. Galatea drew the Artist toward the end of the veranda where there was a clear view.
“Oh, Arthur! Look at Mrs. Cowslip! She’ll kill poor Gustavius!”
The bull-calf’s situation was indeed precarious. He was neatly balanced on his stomach on top of the stone fence, while his mother, with frantic bellows, after the manner of her kind was endeavoring to boost him over with her horns. Gabriel was hastening to the scene, with a pitchfork in his hand, and Napoleon, forgetful of late humiliations, barking at his heels. Cleopatra and Clarence were snorting their alarm from a little distance. It remained for William to relieve the general tension by planting a terrific butt with such precision that Gustavius, launched headlong from the fence, made his first actual acquaintance with the great world beyond. Before Gabriel with his pitchfork could head off Mrs. Cowslip, she, with a mighty leap and scramble, joined her offspring, and together, bellowing, they rushed into the tangle of willows and wild grapevines. Gabriel followed with Napoleon.
Galatea, having alarmed the Poet, hurried with her brother and the Artist down the meadow. Before they reached the fence, Gabriel’s head appeared over it. He waved the pitchfork, addressing Galatea.
“Git back! Git back! A cow funeral ain’t no place for wimmen folks!”
“Oh, Mrs. Cowslip must be dead,” sobbed Galatea, restraining the Artist as the Poet hurried on and shot his long legs over the stone fence. “Poor, dear, good Mrs. Cowslip! Promise me, Arthur, that you’ll save Gustavius.”
She was clinging to his arm beseechingly. Arthur experienced one of his rare moments of real intelligence. He drew a long breath, and thrust out his chest.
“And if I succeed, Galatea?”