"Sounds like Bob!" said Betty to herself. "My goodness, that was Mr.
Peabody--they must be having an awful quarrel!"
The voices and shouts came from the next field, separated from her
by a brook, almost dry now, and a border of crooked young willow
trees grown together in an effective windbreak.
"Anybody who'll gore a cow like that isn't fit to own a single dumb
creature!" A clear young voice shaking with passion was carried by
the wind to the listening girl.
"When I need a blithering, no-'count upstart to teach me my
business, I'll call on you and not before," a deeper, harsh voice
snarled. "When you're farming for yourself you can feed the
neighbors' critters on your corn all you've a mind to!"
"Oh, dear!" Betty scrambled to her feet, forgetting the bouquet so
carefully culled, and darted in the direction of the willow hedge. "I
do hope Mr. Peabody hasn't been cruel to an animal. Bob is always so
furious when he catches him at that!"
She crossed the puttering little brook by the simple expedient of
jumping from one bank to the other and scrambled through the willow
trees, emerging, flushed and anxious-eyed, to confront a boy about
fourteen years old in a torn straw hat and faded overalls and a tall,
lean middle-aged man with a pitchfork in his hands.
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