The big dog had received more than a lethal amount before peace began to return to the taut body and even then I sat back on my heels, almost afraid to look in case I had brought about his end. There was a long agonising moment when he lay still and apparently lifeless then the rib cage began to move almost imperceptibly as the breathing recommenced.

Even then I was in suspense. The anaesthesia was so deep that he was only just alive, yet I knew that the only hope was to keep him that way. I sent Mrs. Clifford out to 'phone Siegfried that I would be tied up here for a while, then I pulled up a chair and settled down to wait.

The hours passed as Johnny and I sat there, the dog stretched between us. The young man discussed the case calmly and without self-pity. There was no suggestion that this was anything more than a pet animal lying at his feet-except for the tell-tale reaching for the head that was no longer there.

Several times Fergus showed signs of going into another spasm and each time I sent him back into his deep, deep insensibility, pushing him repeatedly to the brink with a fateful certainty that it was the only way.

It was well after midnight when I came sleepily out into the darkness. I felt drained. Watching the life of the friendly, clever, face-licking animal flicker as he lay inert and unheeding had been a tremendous strain, but I had left him sleeping-still anaesthetised but breathing deeply and regularly. Would he wake up and start the dread sequence again? I didn't know and I couldn't stay any longer. There was a practice with other animals to attend to.

But my anxiety jerked me into early wakefulness next morning. I tossed around till seven thirty telling myself this wasn't the way to be a veterinary surgeon, that you couldn't live like this. But my worry was stronger than the voice of reason and I slipped out before breakfast to the roadside cottage.

My nerves were like a bowstring as I knocked on the door. Mrs. Clifford answered and I was about to blurt out my enquiries when Fergus trotted from the inner room.

He was still a little groggy from the vast dosage of barbiturate but he was relaxed and happy, the symptoms had gone, he was himself again. With a gush of pure joy I knelt and took the great head between my hands. He slobbered at me playfully with his wet tongue and I had to fight him off.

He followed me into the living room where Johnny was seated at the table, drinking tea. He took up his usual position, sitting upright and proud by his master's side.

"You'll have a cup, Mr. Herriot?" Mrs. Clifford asked, poising the teapot "Thanks, I'd love one, Mrs. Clifford," I replied.

No tea ever tasted better and as I sipped I watched the young man's smiling face.

"What a relief, Mr. Herriot! I sat up with him all night, listenin' to the chimes of the church clock. It was just after four when I knew we'd won because I heard 'im get to his feet and sort o' stagger about. I stopped worryin' then, just listened to 'is feet patterin' on the linoleum. It was lovely!"

He turned his head to me and I looked at the slightly upturned eyes in the cheerful face.

"I'd have been lost without Fergus," he said softly. "I don't know how to thank you."

But as he unthinkingly rested his hand on the head of the big dog who was his pride and delight I felt that the gesture alone was all the thanks I wanted.

That was the end of the strychnine poisoning outbreak in Darrowby. The older people still talk about it, but nobody ever had the slightest clue to the identity of the killer and it is a mystery to this day.

I feel that the vigilance of the police and the publicity in the press frightened this twisted person off, but anyway it just stopped and the only cases since then have been accidental ones.

To me it is a sad memory of failure and frustration. Fergus was my only cure and I'm not sure why he recovered. Maybe the fact that I pushed the injection to dangerous levels because I was desperate had something to do with it, or maybe he just didn't pick up as much poison as the others. I'll never know.

But over the years when I saw the big dog striding majestically in his harness, leading his master unerringly around the streets of Darrowby, I always had the same feeling.

If there had to be just one saved, I'm glad it was him.

CHAPTER 17.

A TENDER NERVE TWINGED as the old lady passed me the cup of tea. She looked just like Mrs. Beck.

One of the local churches was having a social evening to entertain us lonely airmen and as I accepted the cup and sat down I could hardly withdraw my eyes from the lady's face.

Mrs. Beck! I could see her now standing by the surgery window.

"Oooh, I never thought you were such a 'eartless man, Mr. Herriot." Her chin trembled and she looked up at me reproachfully.

"But Mrs. Beck," I said. "I assure you I am not being in the least heartless. I just cannot carry out a major operation on your cat for ten shillings."

"Well, I thought you would've done it for a poor widder woman like me."

I regarded her thoughtfully, taking in the small compact figure, the healthy cheeks, the neat helmet of grey hair pulled tightly into a bun. Was she really a poor widow? There was cause for doubt. Her next-door neighbour in Rayton village was a confirmed skeptic.

"It's all a tale, Mr. Herriot," he had said. "She tries it on wi' everybody, but I'll tell you this-she's got a long stockin'. Owns property all over t'place."

I took a deep breath. "Mrs. Beck. We often do work at reduced rates for people who can't afford to pay, but this is what we call a luxury operation."

"Luxury!" The lady was aghast "Eee, ah've been tellin' you how Georgina keeps havin' them kittens. She's at it all the time and it's gettin' me down. Ah can't sleep for worryin' when t'next lot's comin'." She dabbed her eyes.

"I understand and I'm sorry. I can only tell you again that the only way to prevent this trouble is to spay your cat and the charge is one pound."

"Nay, I can't afford that much!"

I spread my hands. "But you are asking me to do it for half the price. That's ridiculous. This operation involves the removal of the uterus and ovaries under a general anaesthetic. You just can't do a job like that for ten shillings.''

"Oh, you are cruel!" She turned and looked out of the window and her shoulders began to shake. "You won't even take pity on a poor widder."

This had been going on for ten minutes and it began to dawn on me that I was in the presence of a stronger character than myself. I glanced at my watch-I should have been on my round by now and it was becoming increasingly obvious that I wasn't going to win this argument.

I sighed. Maybe she really was a poor widow. "All right, Mrs. Beck, I'll do it for ten shillings, just this once. Will Tuesday afternoon be all right for you?"

She swung round from the window, her face crinkling magically into a smile. "That'll suit me grand! Eee, that's right kind of you." She tripped past me and I followed her along the passage.

"Just one thing," I said as I held the front door open for her. "Don't give Georgina any food from midday on Monday. She must have an empty stomach when you bring her in."

"Bring 'er in?" She was a picture of bewilderment. "But I 'aven't got no car. I thought you'd be collectin' her."

"Collecting! But Rayton's five miles away!"

"Yes, and bring 'er back afterwards, too. I 'ave no transport."

"Collect ... operate on her ... take her back! All for ten shillings!"

She was still smiling but a touch of steel glinted in her eyes.

'Well, that's what you agreed to charge-ten shillings."

"But ... but ..."

"Oh now you're startin' again." The smile faded and she put her head on one side. "And I'm only a poor ..."

"Okay, okay," I said hastily. "I'll call on Tuesday."

And when Tuesday afternoon came round I cursed my softness. If that cat had been been brought in I could have operated on her at two o'clock and been out on the road doing my farm calls by two thirty. I didn't mind working at a loss for half an hour, but how long was this business going to take?

On my way out I glanced through the open door of the sitting room. Tristan was supposed to be studying but was sleeping soundly in his favourite chair. I went in and looked down at him, marvelling at the utter relaxation, seen only in a dedicated sleeper. His face was as smooth and untroubled as a baby's, the Daily Mirror, open at the comic strips, had fallen across his chest and a burnt-out Woodbine hung from one dangling hand.

I shook him gently. "Like to come with me, Triss? I've got to pick up a cat."

He came round slowly, stretching and grimacing, but his fundamental good nature soon reasserted itself.

"Certainly, Jim," he said with a final yawn. "It will be a pleasure."

Mrs. Beck lived half way down the left side of Rayton village. I read "Jasmine Cottage" on the brightly painted gate, and as we went up the garden path the door opened and the little woman waved gaily.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen, I'm right glad to see you both." She ushered us into the living-room among good, solid-looking furniture which showed no sign of poverty. The open cupboard of a mahogany sideboard gave me a glimpse of glasses and bottles. I managed to identify Scotch, cherry brandy and sherry before she nudged the door shut with her knee.

I pointed to a cardboard box loosely tied with string. "Ah, good, you've got her in there, have you?"

"Nay, bless you, she's in t'garden. She allus has a bit of play out there of an afternoon."

"In the garden, eh?" I said nervously. "Well, please get her in, we're in rather a hurry."

We went through a tiled kitchen to the back door. Most of these cottages had a surprising amount of land behind them and Mrs. Beck's patch was in very nice order. Flower beds bordered a smooth stretch of lawn and the sunshine drew glittering colours from the apples and pears among the branches of the trees.

"Georgina," carolled Mrs. Beck. "Where are you, my pet?"

No cat appeared and she turned to me with a roguish smile. "I think the little imp's playin' a game with us. She does that, you know."

"Really?" I said without enthusiasm. "Well, I wish she'd show herself. I really don't have much ..."

At that moment a very fat tabby darted from a patch of chrysanthemums and flitted across the grass into a clump of rhododendrons with Tristan in close pursuit. The young man dived among the greenery and the cat emerged from the other end at top speed, did a couple of laps of the lawn then shot up a gnarled tree.

Tristan, eyes gleaming in anticipation, lifted a couple of windfall apples from the turf. "I'll soon shift the bugger from there, Jim," he whispered and took aim.

I grabbed his arm. "For heaven's sake, Triss!" I hissed. "You can't do that. Put those things down."

"Oh ... all right." He dropped the apples and made for the tree. "I'll get hold of her for you, anyway."

"Wait a minute." I seized his coat as he passed. "I'll do it. You stay down here and try to catch her if she jumps."

Tristan looked disappointed but I gave him a warning look. The way the cat had moved, it struck me that it only needed a bit of my colleague's ebullience to send the animal winging into the next county. I began to climb the tree.

I like cats, I've always liked them, and since I feel that animals recognise this in a person I have usually been able to approach and handle the most difficult types. It is not too much to say that I prided myself on my cat technique; I didn't foresee any trouble here.

Puffing slightly, I reached the top branch and extended a hand to the crouching animal.

"Pooss-pooss," I cooed, using my irresistible cat tone.

Georgina eyed me coldly and gave no answering sign other than a higher arching of the back.

I leaned further along the branch. "Pooss-pooss, pooss-pooss." My voice was like molten honey, my finger near her face. I would rub her cheek ever so gently and she would be mine. It never failed.

"Pah!" replied Georgina warningly but I took no heed and touched the fur under her chin.

"Pah-pah!" Georgina spat and followed with a lightning left hook which opened a bloody track across the back of my hand.

Muttering fervently, I retreated and nursed my wounds. From below Mrs. Beck gave a tinkling laugh.

"Oh, isn't she a little monkey! She's that playful, bless her."

I snorted and began to ease my way along the branch again. This time, I thought grimly, I would dispense with finesse. The quick grab was indicated here.

As though reading my thoughts the little creature tripped to the end of the branch and as it bent low under her weight she dropped lightly to the grass.

Tristan was on her in a flash, throwing himself full length and seizing her by the hind leg. Georgina whipped round and unhesitatingly sank her teeth into his thumb but Tristan's core of resilience showed. After a single howl of agony he changed his grip at lightning speed to the scruff of the neck.

A moment later he was standing upright holding a dangling fighting fury high in the air.

"Right, Jim," he called happily. "I have her."

"Good lad! Hang on!" I said breathlessly and slithered down the tree as quickly as I could. Too quickly, in fact, as an ominous ripping sound announced the removal of a triangular piece of my jacket elbow.

But I couldn't bother with trifles. Ushering Tristan at a gallop into the house I opened the cardboard box. There were no sophisticated cat containers in those days and it was a tricky job to enclose Georgina, who was lashing out in all directions and complaining bitterly in a bad-tempered wail.

It took a panting ten minutes to imprison the cat but even with several yards of rough twine round the floppy cardboard I still didn't feel very secure as I bore it to the car.

Mrs. Beck raised a finger as we were about to drive away. I carefully explored my lacerated hand and Tristan sucked his thumb as we waited for her to speak.

"Mr. Herriot, I 'ope you'll be gentle with 'er," she said anxiously. "She's very timid, you know."

We had covered barely half a mile before sounds of strife arose from the back.

"Get back! Get in there. Get back, you bugger!"

I glanced behind me. Tristan was having trouble. Georgina clearly didn't care for the motion of the car and from the slits in the box clawed feet issued repeatedly; on one occasion an enraged spitting face got free as far as the neck. Tristan kept pushing everything back with great resolution but I could tell from the rising desperation of his cries that he was fighting a losing battle.

I heard the final shout with a feeling of inevitability.

"She's out, Jim! The bugger's out!"

Well this was great. Anybody who has driven a car with a hysterical cat hurtling around the interior will appreciate my situation. I crouched low over the wheel as the furry creature streaked round the sides or leaped clawing at the roof or windscreen with Tristan lunging vainly after her.

But cruel fate had not finished with us yet. My colleague's gasps and grunts from the rear ceased for a moment to be replaced by a horrified shriek.

"The bloody thing's shitting, Jim! She's shitting everywhere!"

The cat was obviously using every weapon at her disposal and he didn't have to tell me. My nose was way ahead of him, and I frantically wound down the window. But I closed it just as quickly at the rising image of Georgina escaping and disappearing into the unknown.