They would not have been--by Robina.
"Any hint let fall as to what the cow was wanted for?"
"The lydy gives us to understand," said the boy, "that fresh milk was
'er idea."
That surprised me: that was thoughtful of Robina. "And this is the
cow?"
"I towed her rahnd last night. I didn't knock at the door and tell
yer abaht 'er, cos, to be quite frank with yer, there wasn't anybody
in."
"What is she bellowing for?" I asked.
"Well," said the boy, "it's only a theory, o' course, but I should
sy, from the look of 'er, that she wanted to be milked."
"But it started bellowing at half-past two," I argued. "It doesn't
expect to be milked at half-past two, does it?"
"Meself," said the boy, "I've given up looking for sense in cows."
In some unaccountable way this boy was hypnotising me. Everything
had suddenly become out of place.
The cow had suddenly become absurd: she ought to have been a milk-
can. The wood struck me as neglected: there ought to have been
notice-boards about, "Keep off the Grass," "Smoking Strictly
Prohibited": there wasn't a seat to be seen. The cottage had surely
got itself there by accident: where was the street? The birds were
all out of their cages; everything was upside down.
"Are you a real farmer's boy?" I asked him.
"O' course I am," he answered. "What do yer tike me for--a hartist
in disguise?"
It came to me. "What is your name?"
"'Enery--'Enery 'Opkins.
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