“Whatever is the matter with that cow?” cried Aunt Georgie, as they sat at their evening meal the next day. “Why is she lowing like that? It’s my poor Jersey, and—goodness gracious, what is the matter with her tail?”
“Tail!” shouted the captain, springing up as the cow came clumsily cantering up, followed by all the rest of the cattle, who added their lowing to the Jersey’s mournful bellow. “Tail! Here, quick, Jack—boys, the guns; the poor creature has been speared.”
It was plain enough. Speared, and badly, for the weapon stood firmly just in front of the poor animal’s tail, in spite of the frantic gallop in which she had sought for relief.
“I can’t leave the poor beast like this, Jack,” cried the captain. “Cover me if you see any one stealing up. No; there is no need. I can see it all plainly enough.”
The cow did not run away from him as he went close up, and with a sharp tug dragged out the clumsy weapon, tearing his handkerchief afterward to plug the horrible wound.
“Will she get better, father?” asked Norman.
“I hope so, boy. I don’t think the point can have reached any vital part. But you see, don’t you?”
“Only the wound, father. What do you mean?”
“I’m afraid this is your friend Shanter’s bit of revenge for my blow.”
“Oh no, father,” cried Rifle, indignantly. “Poor old Tam o’ Shanter would not be such a brute.”