“Dexter!” she said reproachfully.
The boy took off his cap, looked in it, rubbed his closely cropped head in a puzzled way, and put his cap slowly on again, to stand once more gazing at his companion.
“I can’t tell how it is,” he said dolefully. “I think there must be something wrong in my head. It don’t go right. I never mean to do what you don’t like, but somehow I always do.”
“Look there, Dexter,” said Helen quickly; “those bullocks seem vicious; we had better go back.”
She pointed to a drove of bullocks which had been put in the newly-cut meadows by one of the butchers in the town, and the actions of the animals were enough to startle any woman, for, being teased by the flies, they were careering round the field with heads down and tails up, in a lumbering gallop, and approaching the spot where the couple stood.
They were down by the water, both the stile they had crossed and that by which they would leave the meadow about equidistant, while, as the bullocks were making straight for the river to wade in, and try to rid themselves of their torment, it seemed as if they were charging down with serious intent.
“Come: quick! let us run,” cried Helen in alarm, and she caught at Dexter’s hand.
“What! run away from them!” cried the boy stoutly. “Don’t you be afraid of them. You come along.”
“No, no,” cried Helen; “it is not safe.”
But, to her horror, Dexter shook himself free, snatched off his cap, and rushed straight at the leading bullock, a great heavy beast with long horns, and now only fifty yards away, while the drove were close at its heels.