"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered. "Ain't it funny 'ow religion gets into the legs when there's a bull about? Bit of a slump in 'arps, if you was to ask me!"
For some seconds he stood gazing down on the grovelling form of Mr. Hearty, an anxious eye on the bull which, with angry snorts, was battering the gate in a manner that caused him some concern.
"Look 'ere, 'Earty, you'd better nip orf," he said at length, bringing his boot gently into contact with a prominent portion of the greengrocer's prostrate form. Mr. Hearty merely groaned and muttered appeals to the Almighty to save him.
"It ain't no use a-kickin' up all that row," Bindle continued. "This 'ere bit o' beef seems to 'ave taken a fancy to you, 'Earty, an' that there gate ain't none too strong, neither. 'Ere, steady Kayser," he admonished, as the bull made a vicious dash with its head against the gate.
Mr. Hearty sat up and gave a wild look about him. At the sight of the blood-shot eyes of the enraged animal he scrambled to his feet.
"Now you make a bolt for that there stile," said Bindle, jerking his thumb in the direction where Mrs. Bindle had just disappeared, "and you'll find Mrs. B. somewhere on the other side."
With another apprehensive glance at the bull, Mr. Hearty turned and made towards the stile. His pace was strangely suggestive of a man cheating in a walking-race.
The sight of his quarry escaping seemed still further to enrage the bull. With a terrifying roar it dashed furiously at the gate.
The sound of the roar lent wings to the feet of the flying Mr. Hearty. Throwing aside all pretence, he made precipitately towards the stile, beyond which lay safety. For a few seconds, Bindle stood watching the flying figure of his brother-in-law. Then he turned off to the right, along the hedge dividing the meadow from the field occupied by the bull.
"Well, 'ere's victory or Westminster Abbey," he muttered as he crept through a hole in the hawthorn, hoping that the bull would not observe him. His object was to warn the farmer of the animal's escape.