“Clem about?”
“I—I don’t know,” said Flo, staring.
“He’s got a cawfe; said he’d have it ready,” the newcomer explained without any sign of being put out. “You’re new here, aren’t you? Are you from round about?”
“No.”
“I thought not; I reckon to know pretty well everybody hereabouts . . . an’ there’s non many as don’t know Jack Knight.” He smiled, showing big regular teeth. “I wonder if he’s left it somewhere.”
“I can look,” said Flo, hesitant, then going towards the door.
He moved out and waited just outside. She noticed that he had clogged boots. He was no taller than she was, but he walked in almost a military way, with short quick steps.
“What did you say it was?”
“A calf . . . bull; roan, I think.”
“Oh,” muttered Flo. “That wasn’t what you said.”
“Don’t they say ‘cawfe’ where you come from?” He laughed again. “There’s funnier things than that as we say; you’ll learn a few off Monica, I reckon.”
“She does talk,” she agreed, somehow relieved to be able to discuss her with someone.
“Like a rat-trap; makes up for the old man. Says what she wants an’ be damned to you. There’s a few round here don’t like her, ’cos she non feart of telling ’em . . . But she’s straight. I like folk as say what they mean.”
Flo wondered about his age. He sounded older than he looked. The horse, a half-legged piebald, hadn’t been brushed, and the paint of the float had flaked off, grey wood showing in patches and blotches. The traces were chain, badly rusted.
“They keep the calves at the back,” said Flo, pleased to let him know that she knew something. But he seemed to know better than she did, for he crossed to the barn and went confidently through in front of her. He glanced over the pens and said at once, “This is him”, and jerked the bolt out. It was the calf that Flo had fed. It struggled up and capered stiltedly away, as if its legs were clockwork and not its own, but her companion caught it skilfully and hoisted it under his arm, right hand under its belly.
“What are you going to do?” demanded Flo, scared.
“Take him; that’s what I come for.”
“But how do I know . . .?”
“Oh, tell ’em it’s Jack; it’ll be all right,” he said easily, manœuvring carefully through the doorway. “We’ll ha’ to find a sack . . . any old thing.”
The calf began a spasmodic struggle and seemed about to slip out of his grip backward, but he abruptly shifted his arm from under its belly and held it in both arms, fore and aft, so that its legs were bunched and it was helpless. This amused Flo so much that she laughed out and Jack looked at her appreciatively.
“You know how to laugh, anyway,” he said. “Look in yon corn bin; there’s gen’ly some old sacks . . .”
She lifted the flat wooden lid. There were several sacks, strong heavy ones, but those, he said, would not do. “There’s money on them; we want one as is no good.”
“What’s it . . . for?”asked Flo.
“To put him in, of course.”
“You’ll smother him.”
“Non th’ way as I do it,” and he grinned at her ignorance. “Here, the beggar’s gettin’ heavy. We’ll let ’im walk.”
Set down the calf stood stiff and trembling. Jack shoved on its haunches from behind and it leaned back, and when the pressure was too strong, it let its rear stagger sideways, but kept its forefeet planted. Then Jack shoved at its shoulder and got it straightened towards the door once more, but it would not go reasonably.
“The stupid little brute,” exclaimed Jack, and lifted it bodily over the barn sill.
“Let me try,” said Flo. Possibly it was because it felt safer in the light, but now the calf paced gently on and all she had to do was steer by patting its neck when it veered too much to one side, as it tried to do nearly all the way. Jack led to the stable, where behind the door he found a sack with three ragged holes in, but with bottom more or less intact.
“You hold it,” he ordered, stretching the sack mouth. Adroitly he captured the calf, tipped it upright, doubling its legs, and began to try to get it rear first into the sack. But now it fought with all its strength, and got a leg free, and hit Flo on the knuckle, so that she let go. “Hold still, you little cracker,” panted Jack, hugging it in a kind of rugby tackle.
“Isn’t it cruel?” asked Flo, wondering whether she was doing right.
“If he’d keep still an’ sensible, he’d go in like your foot an’ know nowt about it.”
They tried again. All at once the calf weakened, and Jack shook him down as if he were potatoes. Only his head stuck out. The sack was gathered in round his neck and Jack tied it with binder twine from his pocket. Never had Flo seen anything look more pathetic than the calf did then lying on its side gazing out on the world with great bewildered eyes. Once or twice it fumbled its legs. It mooed in its helplessness. Flo heard an answering bawl from the shippon.
“Mother,” said Jack. “Surprisin’ how some of ’em remember. They make a fuss, some o’ them. Hark ’er.” There was the rattling of a chain. “It’s just hearin’ him. Probably never thought owt about him for a week,” said Jack; but to Flo this careless view seemed callous. She thought of the calf now as a human baby. Jack bundled it up and dropped it in the float bottom, shoving it to one side with his boot.
“Where are you taking it? You shouldn’t do that,” said Flo, growing hot. “I don’t think I should have helped. I’m sure Mr. Nadin wouldn’t . . .”
He looked up and his eyes were very blue and held a quizzing look, so that her anger flagged again.
“Don’t worry; he’s a grand ’un,” he said. “I’m goin’ to look after ’im. Tell the old man I’ll see him right sometime. Come up, mi old cabhorse!” This to the piebald gelding, and the float began to turn and rocked and slipped over the rough yard. Flo saw the calf nodding as if he had no strength left except barely to keep his head up. She didn’t know even yet whether to let him go. But at the gate Jack gave a queer stiff flip with his left hand and then was hidden by the building. It was too late. A little pucker of worry came between her eyes, and as she went back to the house she considered whether to go upstairs at once and tell Mrs. Nadin.
Only when she got in Mrs. Nadin was down and snapped out before Flo could say anything, “Where’ve you bin?”
“A . . .a man came for a calf; I don’t know . . .”
“Where was Emmott? It’s none o’ your job.”
“I don’t know, but he said . . .”
“Who were it?” Mrs. Nadin interrupted.
“Knight . . . Ja . . .”
“Good cess you got rid of ’im!” she exclaimed. “Talk the hind leg off a dead donkey. Knows everything there is ta know an’ a dang seet more—ta hear him talk. Got it off his father. He talked till he even got tired o’ listenin’ to ’isself, so he went deaf. Deaf as dead mutton; and Jack’ll goo deaf an’ all. What was he after?”
“Calf . . . the one by its . . .”
“Did he pay?” demanded the little woman abruptly.