Judging by the protests which began
to be shouted from the upper windows of neighbouring houses the
sentiments prevailing in the cow-house were heartily echoed in other
quarters.
The revellers found their car, and, what was more remarkable, managed to
drive off in it, with a parting fanfare of tin trumpets. The lively beat
of a drum disclosed the fact that the master of the revels remained on
the scene.
"Bertie!" came in an angry, imploring chorus of shouts and screams from
the cow-house window.
"Hullo," cried the owner of the name, turning his rather errant steps in
the direction of the summons; "are you people still there? Must have
heard everything cows got to say by this time. If you haven't, no use
waiting. After all, it's a Russian legend, and Russian Chrismush Eve not
due for 'nother fortnight. Better come out."
After one or two ineffectual attempts he managed to pitch the key of the
cow-house door in through the window. Then, lifting his voice in the
strains of "I'm afraid to go home in the dark," with a lusty drum
accompaniment, he led the way back to the house. The hurried procession
of the released that followed in his steps came in for a good deal of the
adverse comment that his exuberant display had evoked.
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