The Twenty-Second Chapter
When Mr Prosser returned from Craven Arms next evening he was in a bad temper. At the Railway Hotel on the night before he had fallen in with a number of cattle dealers from North Bromwich and Manchester. He had drunk more than he could stand, and had sat up playing cards in the commercial room till three o’clock in the morning, losing the price of a bullock in the process. Marion, who met him at Llandwlas station, told him that the Devon cow had died in the night.
‘Died?’ said he, ‘what do you mean “died”? She was all right yesterday.’
‘Fellows says it was bronchitis. It was awful to see her breathing.’
‘Bronchitis! They don’t die that quick with bronchitis. What the hell does Fellows know about it?’
‘He couldn’t have done more than he did,’ she replied. ‘He sat up with her till she went.’
‘I’ve never known such an unlucky year,’ he grumbled. ‘Hayes’s wife says that he won’t be out of hospital for another month or more. Fellows means well enough, but he’s not like an experienced cowman.’ He sat broodily in the trap for a few moments. ‘Why didn’t you send for Harris?’ he asked at length.
‘We did, but Daisy died before he could get up.’
‘I shall advertise for a cowman,’ he said, with a show of determination that gave him a better opinion of himself.
‘Fellows did his best. It wasn’t his fault.’