As jocund Summer merged into placid Autumn, Gustavius throve mightily and waxed fat. His shoulders broadened, his voice deepened, his sharp-pointed horns acquired a high polish through painstaking friction upon every available object, and became rigidly embedded in his thickening skull. He could summon the red glow to his eyes in moments of anger, and he exulted in the knowledge that his stout heart was bursting with courage. Gustavius was putting bull-calfhood forever behind him, and each day brought him increased yearnings for valorous deeds.
In view of this physical and moral transformation, Gustavius wondered at his tolerance of the familiarities still recklessly practiced by his comrades. But how could he stoop so low as to enforce respect from a pig or a goat? The dog was eliminated from the problem, because it was a dog’s natural prerogative to nip at the heels of superiority and avoid punishment by flight. As for the mare, she was uniformly courteous, and the playfulness of the colt disarmed him.
Concerning the two-legged members of the family, Gustavius felt himself the victim of hereditary respect for the sternly authoritative person called Gabe, and there was something so soothing in the manner of the lank, long-limbed man who spent most of his time lounging about the veranda that it was impossible to offer him any sort of challenge. The red-headed girl—ah! Gustavius was not ashamed to confess to himself that the bare sight of her made him glow with docile affection.
“And yet,” said Reginald impudently,—for Gustavius’s later reflections had unconsciously resolved themselves into speech, as he stood with his comrades in the afternoon shade of the willows,—“and yet a bit of anything else as red as that girl’s hair sends you into convulsions of rage. Talk about inconsistency—”
“Shut up, pig!” said Clarence. “You’re jealous.”
Suddenly Gustavius began to bellow and paw the earth.
“What disturbs you, my son?” inquired Mrs. Cowslip, between the finish of one cud and the beginning of another.
“It’s that rank outsider again, who is forever butting in with that vile-smelling red wagon,” said Gustavius, lifting his nose toward the lawn. “He angers me beyond words. I’ve laid for him a hundred times, but he hasn’t a drop of sporting blood in his body; he’s forever hanging on to the skirts of the red-headed girl.”
Galatea and the Artist, carrying a long, flat box between them, were walking about the lawn midway between the house and the willows. Presently they found a smooth, level space, opened the box, and proceeded to drive into the ground two gaudily painted stakes and some arches of wire.
“It’s very annoying the way that chap’s always about nowadays,” admitted Reginald. “I was just thinking of going up to get my back scratched, but it’s no use now.”