"It was Oscar wot nearly upset pore old 'Earty," grinned Bindle.
"A savage beast like that ought to be shot," cried Mrs. Bindle, gazing squarely at the farmer. "It nearly killed——"
"Ought to be shot!" repeated the farmer, a dull flush rising to his face. "Shoot Oscar! Are you mad, ma'am?" he demanded, making an obvious effort to restrain his anger.
"Don't you dare to insult me," she cried. "You set that savage brute on to Mr. Hearty and it nearly killed him. I shall report you to the bishop—and—and—to the police," she added as an after-thought. "You ought to be prosecuted."
Mrs. Bindle's lips had disappeared into a grey line, her face was very white, particularly at the corners of the mouth. For nearly two hours she had restrained herself. Now that she was face to face with the owner of the bull that had nearly plunged her into mourning, her anger burst forth.
The farmer looked from one to the other in bewilderment.
"Report me to the police," he repeated dully. "What——"
"Yes, and I will too," cried Mrs. Bindle, interpreting the farmer's strangeness of manner as indicative of fear. "Mad bulls are always shot."
The farmer focussed his gaze upon Mrs. Bindle, as if she belonged to a new species. His anger had vanished. He was overcome by surprise that anyone should be so ignorant of bulls and their ways as to believe Oscar mad.
"Why, ma'am, Oscar's no more mad than you or me. He's just a bit fresh. Most times he's as gentle as a lamb."