"Daisy--the one lying down--is by a shorthorn bull out of a Guernsey
cow," announced Luke in a hushed voice, which was in keeping with the
foregoing impression.
"Is she?" said Bordenby, rather as if he had expected her to be by
Rembrandt.
"Myrtle is--"
Myrtle's family history was cut short by a little scream from the women
of the party.
The cow-house door had closed noiselessly behind them and the key had
turned gratingly in the lock; then they heard Bertie's voice pleasantly
wishing them good-night and his footsteps retreating along the garden
path.
Luke Steffink strode to the window; it was a small square opening of the
old-fashioned sort, with iron bars let into the stonework.
"Unlock the door this instant," he shouted, with as much air of menacing
authority as a hen might assume when screaming through the bars of a coop
at a marauding hawk. In reply to his summons the hall-door closed with a
defiant bang.
A neighbouring clock struck the hour of midnight. If the cows had
received the gift of human speech at that moment they would not have been
able to make themselves heard. Seven or eight other voices were engaged
in describing Bertie's present conduct and his general character at a
high pressure of excitement and indignation.
Pages:
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96