“She ain’t no better, squire.”
“Bad job.... Has Thompson been to see her to-day?” Thompson was the vet.
“‘E can’t make nothin’ of it—’e thinks it’s a habscess she’s got, but I don’t put much faith in Mister Thompson: ’is father was a labourer same as me, only ’e didn’t ’ave to do with farming, bein’ a bricklayer; and wot ’is son can know about cattle is beyond me altogether.”
“Well, let’s go and look at her,” said Edward.
He strode over to the barn, followed by the labourer. The beast was standing in one corner, even more meditative than is usual with cows, hanging her head and humping her back. She seemed profoundly pessimistic.
“I should have thought Thompson could do something,” said Edward.
“‘E says the butcher’s the only thing for ’er,” said the other, with great contempt.
Edward snorted indignantly. “Butcher indeed! I’d like to butcher him if I got the chance.”
He went into the farmhouse, which for years had been his home; but he was a practical, sensible fellow and it brought him no memories, no particular emotion.
“Well, Mrs. Jones,” he said to the tenant’s wife. “How’s yourself?”