“Come on, then,” said Eily, speaking with her eyes this time. “Come on, I’m ready. We’ll make faces at the bull.”
So off they ran once more.
The bull was a splendid Highland specimen, with a rough buff jacket, hair all over his face and eyes, and horns as long as both your arms outstretched. Just such an animal as Rosa Bonheur, that queen of artists, delights to paint.
He dwelt in a field all by himself because he was so fierce that no other creature or human being dare go near him except a certain sturdy cowherd, who had known Jock, as the bull was called, since he was a calf.
Jock was quite away at the other end of the field—which was well walled—when Harry and his canine companion arrived at the five-barred gate.
“I know how to fetch him down, Eily,” said Harry. Then he called out as loud as he could: “Towsie Jock! Towsie Jock! Towsie! Towsie! Towsie!”
The great bull lifted his head and sniffed the air.
“Towsie Jock! Towsie! Towsie! Towsie!”
With a roar that would have frightened many a child, he shook his great head, then came on towards the gate, growling all the while in a most alarming way.
“Towsie Jock! Towsie! Towsie?” cried the boy.