The simple action seemed to have a magical effect upon Mr. Timkins. His anger disappeared and his customary bluff geniality returned.
He acknowledged Bindle's signal with a wink, then he turned to Mrs. Bindle.
"You see, ma'am, this is all my land, and I let the bishop have his camp——"
"That doesn't excuse you for keeping a mad bull," was the uncompromising retort. The life of her hero had been endangered, and Mrs. Bindle was not to be placated by words.
"But Oscar ain't mad," protested the farmer, taking off his hat and mopping his forehead with a large coloured-handkerchief he had drawn from his tail-pocket. "I tell you he's no more mad than what I am."
"And I tell you he is," she retorted, with all the assurance of one thoroughly versed in the ways of bulls.
"You see, it's like this here, mum," he said soothingly, intent upon placating one who was not "quite all there," as he would have expressed it. "It's all through the wind gettin' round to the sou'west. If it hadn't been for that——"
"Don't talk to me about such rubbish," she interrupted scornfully. "I wonder you don't say it's because there's a new moon. I'm not a fool, although I haven't lived all my life on a farm."
The farmer looked about him helplessly. Then he made another effort.
"You see, ma'am, when the wind's in the sou'west, Oscar gets a whiff o' them cows in the home——"