Through the fields between two villages in Sussex ran a footpath. It was not the quickest route for one going from one of the hamlets to the other, for it wandered about, but it had been traced originally by the horny, naked feet of Saxon serfs, and now was worn deep into the turf by the heels of countless generations, and everybody in the neighborhood used it, because everybody always had.
A country gentleman lived midway between the towns. One day he heard a vicious bull was straying about the countryside, chasing pedestrians, frightening children and generally misbehaving himself.
Seeking for variety from the monotony of his life, the gentleman went forth in the afternoon hoping to glimpse the bull. Once he heard him bellow, but he did not see him.
He lingered afield until nearly dusk. He had reached a stile where a hedge crossed the footpath when he heard in the distance, through the thickening gloom, the patter of flying feet, mingled with the thud of heavy hoofs, a convulsive panting and the snorts of some large animal.
Into sight came the local postman, an elderly person. He was legging along at top speed, his mail pouch bouncing on his hip, his whiskers neatly parted by the wind and blowing backward over his shoulders, and just behind him came the bull, lunging with his horns at the seat of the fugitive’s trousers.
By half a length the fleeing man reached the hedge ahead of his pursuer. He flung himself headlong over the stile and in its protection lay breathless, while the bull, bellowing his disappointment, strolled off to seek an easier victim.
The spectator aided the quivering postman to his feet.
“He almost had you to-night, Fletcher,” said the gentleman, sympathetically.
“ ’E’s almost ’ad me every night this week, sir,” gasped Fletcher.