"'Tain't no use to cry about nothin'," said Batt Leeson, with affected roughness. "Them pigs'll fetch a fancy figger, though five of 'em's runts."
"I w-wasn't thinkin' of the pigs," said Nettie. "I was w-wondering when Cyril Stanley would come. He's—a friend of mine," she added with a gulp of pride through all her grief.
"Him? Say, he's up at the purebred camp at Barstairs. Gittin' the herd in shape for the annual fair circuit. We got the greatest champeen bulls in the world, take it from me. You needn't look for him, girl. He's on his job."
She turned pale at this news, though Cyril had warned her of the possibility of his being dispatched to the Bull camp at Barstairs. She knew now that it would be impossible for him to come.
With a sickening sense of utter desertion, she returned to where the auction was continuing briskly, and with considerable hilarity. The auctioneer was jumping up and down, as a small hull was driven into the circle of log fencing.
"Oh, boys!" yelled the auctioneer (a one-time showman), "what have we here? This ain't no scrub bull! Betchu he's almost pure Hereford! Betchu he's got a good strain of Bar Q in him! Betchu he's an A No. 1 calf-thrower. What am I offered? Gentlemen, here's the chance o' your lifetime."
A loud laugh burst from the circle of farmers, and Bull Langdon came closer to the fence, and squinted appraisingly at the animal.
"Dare say he ain't in prime shape—poor nibblings on the D. D. D. as you know, gentlemen, but betchu you turn 'im out on some reglar grass, he'll turn yound and 'sprize you. They's the makin's of a smooth Bull in that fellow!"
"How old is he?" yelled a wag, making a horn of his hands. "Seems like I seen him at D. D. D. when Dan Day first pulled in."
Before the laughter that swelled up from this sally had half died down, a girl's young savage voice broke upon the gathering. Eyes blazing, breathlessly facing the circle of rough men, Nettie sprang to the defense of the home product.