Tom unfastened a stout wooden door and led the way into a straw-
bedded yard.
"Is he quiet?" asked the artist, as a young bull with a curly red coat
came inquiringly towards them.
"He's playful at times," said Tom, leaving his half-brother to wonder
whether the bull's ideas of play were of the catch-as-catch-can order.
Laurence made one or two perfunctory comments on the animal's appearance
and asked a question or so as to his age and such-like details; then he
coolly turned the talk into another channel.
"Do you remember the picture I showed you at Taunton?" he asked.
"Yes," grunted Tom; "a white-faced bull standing in some slush. Don't
admire those Herefords much myself; bulky-looking brutes, don't seem to
have much life in them. Daresay they're easier to paint that way; now,
this young beggar is on the move all the time, aren't you, Fairy?"
"I've sold that picture," said Laurence, with considerable complacency in
his voice.
"Have you?" said Tom; "glad to hear it, I'm sure. Hope you're pleased
with what you've got for it."
"I got three hundred pounds for it," said Laurence.
Tom turned towards him with a slowly rising flush of anger in his face.
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