“It’s a bull,” she said.
“No, it’s only a cow,” ventured the Sphynx, whose tauric glasses were not adjusted to distances—or to bulls.
“I’m sure it’s a bull,” repeated Aurora.
Steve glanced at the beast over his shoulder, and then took a brassey from his bag.
“He won’t bother us,” he muttered. But the animal was approaching majestically, pausing now and then to paw up the dirt with his front hoofs and throwing a cloud of dust over his back.
“It’s your parasol, Patty,” said Aurora.
“Or Jimmy’s vest,” put in Patricia.
“You’d better run for it, you and Aurora,” said Ventnor. “You can easily make the fence.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to play this shot. It’s the prettiest lie I’ve had all day.”