Bee's English coachman, who took great pride in the kitchen-garden, hastily followed to see what damage she had done, but at Mrs. Jimmie's agonized entreaty to know what had become of Jimmie, I called him, and he came, respectfully touching his forelock in a way which Jimmie always said "was worth the price of admission."
"I think she has about done for the Country Gentleman, ma'am. She has trampled it so it will never be any good."
Mrs. Jimmie turned white, and leaned gaspingly on Lady Mary.
"Trampled him!" she cried. "Oh, come! Come quickly, and see if she has killed him!"
"My dear!" I cried, almost hysterical over her mistake. "The Country
Gentleman is a kind of sweet corn—not Jimmie! See, there he is now.
Look, dearest!"
Sure enough, there came Jimmie, a trifle sheepish, but defiant. His derby hat was without a brim, the milk-pail was jammed together like a folding lunch-box, and had a little foam on the outside, as the sole product of his milking prowess.
We asked no questions, but our eager faces demanded an explanation.
He gave it,—terse as was his wont.
"Well, I'll bet that damned cow never switches her tail in anybody's face again!"
We needed no further description of what had happened. The picture was complete.