“It’s your cow,” said the boy.
It was my turn to stare.
“But I haven’t got a cow,” I told him.
“Yus you have,” he persisted; “you’ve got that cow.”
She had stopped bellowing for a moment. She was not the cow I felt I could ever take a pride in. At some time or another, quite recently, she must have sat down in some mud.
“How did I get her?” I demanded.
“The young lydy,” explained the boy, “she came rahnd to our plice on Tuesday—”
I began to see light. “An excitable young lady—talks very fast—never waits for the answer?”
“With jolly fine eyes,” added the boy approvingly.
“And she ordered a cow?”