“Nothing else, Branson,” he said. “You carry a long face, man.”
“The wet weather and the cold have done their work, sir. Will you walk down with me to the cattle-sheds?”
Arrived there, he pointed to a splendid fat ox, who stood in his stall before his untouched turnips with hanging head and dry, parched nose. His hot breath was visible when he threw his head now and then uneasily round towards his loin, as if in pain. There was a visible swelling on the rump. Branson placed a hand on it, and the Squire could hear it “bog” and crackle.
“What is that, Branson? Has he been hurt?”
“No, sir, worse. I’ll show you.”
He took out his sharp hunting-knife.
“It won’t hurt the poor beast,” he said.
Then he cut deep into the swelling. The animal never moved. No blood followed the incision, but the gaping wound was black, and filled with air-bubbles.
“The quarter-ill,” said the cowman, who stood mournfully by.
That ox was dead in a few hours. Another died next day, two the next, and so on, though not in an increasing ratio; but in a month there was hardly an animal alive about the place except the horses.