"
Bob switched an unoffending flower head savagely.
"You come out of that!" he shouted to the perverse cow that seemed
determined to turn to the left when she was plainly asked to turn to
the right. "Wait a minute, Betty; here's Fred Keppler."
The half-grown boy who accosted them with "What are you doing with
our cow?" grinned fatuously at Betty, showing several gaps in a row
of fine teeth.
"Keep your cow at home where she belongs," directed Bob
magnificently. "She's been making her dinner off our corn."
"Oh, gee," sighed the boy nervously. "I'll bet old Peabody was in a
tearing fury. Look, Bob, something's tore her hide! She must have
been down in the blackberry bushes along the brook."
"Well, see that it doesn't happen again," commanded Bob, gracefully
withdrawing by walking backward. "Corn that's as high as ours is
worth something, you know."
"You never told him about the pitchfork," said Betty accusingly, as
soon as Fred Keppler and the cow were out of earshot. "You let him
think it was blackberry bushes that scratched her like that."
"Well, his father will know the difference," grinned Bob cheerfully.
"Why should I start an argument with Fred? Saving the cow from the
pound ought to be enough, anyway.
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