"Catch him!" At my frantic shout the man grabbed the inert form, then I reinserted the slots in their holes and got the wooden surface back on the level.

"Put your leg under there," I gasped, then turned to the girl. "And would you please do the same at the other end. This table mustn't fall over once I get started."

Silently they complied and as I looked at them, each with a leg jammed against the underside, I felt a deep sense of shame. What sort of place did they think this was?

But for a long time after I forgot everything. First I put the joint back in place, slipping the ridges of the tibial-tarsal trochlea into the grooves at the distal end of the tibia as I had done so often in the anatomy lab at college. And I noticed with a flicker of hope that some of the ligaments were still intact and, most important, that a few good blood vessels still ran down to the lower part of the limb.

I never said a word as I cleaned and disinfected the area, puffed iodoform into every crevice and began to stitch. I stitched interminably, pulling together shattered tendons, torn joint capsule and fascia. It was a warm morning and as the sun beat on the surgery window the sweat broke out on my forehead. By the time I had sutured the skin a little river was flowing down my nose and dripping from the tip. Next, more iodoform, then the lint and finally two of the plaster bandages, making a firm cast above the hock down over the foot.

I straightened up and faced the young couple. They had never moved from their uncomfortable postures as they held the table upright but I gazed at them as though seeing them for the first time.

I mopped my brow and drew a long breath. "Well, that's it. I'd be inclined to leave it as it is for a week, then wherever you are let a vet have a look at it."

They were silent for a moment then the girl spoke. "I would rather you saw it yourself." Her husband nodded agreement.

"Really?" I was amazed. I had thought they would never want to see me, my smelly waiting room or my collapsible table again.

"Yes, of course we would," the man said. "You have taken such pains over him. Whatever happens we are deeply grateful to you, Mr. Brannan."

"Oh, I'm not Mr. Brannan, he's on holiday. I'm his locum, my name is Herriot."

He held out his hand. "Well thank you again, Mr. Herriot. I am Peter Gillard and this is my wife, Marjorie."

We shook hands and he took the dog in his arms and went out to the car.

For the next few days I couldn't keep Kim's leg out of my mind. At times I felt I was crazy trying to salvage a limb that was joined to the dog only by a strip of skin. I had never met anything remotely like it before and in unoccupied moments the hock joint with all its imponderables would float across my vision.

There were plenty of these moments because Stewie's was a restful practice. Apart from the three daily surgeries there was little activity, and in particular the uncomfortable pre-breakfast call so common in Darrowby was unknown here.

The Brannans had left the house and me in the care of Mrs. Holroyd, an elderly widow of raddled appearance who slouched around in a flowered overall down which ash cascaded from a permanently dangling cigarette. She wasn't a good riser but she soon had me trained, because after a few mornings when I couldn't find her I began to prepare my own breakfast and that was how it stayed.

However, at other times she looked after me very well. She was what you might call a good rough cook and pushed large tasty meals at me regularly with a "There y'are, luv," watching me impassively till I started to eat. The only thing that disturbed me was the long trembling finger of ash which always hung over my food from the cigarette that was part of her.

Mrs. Holroyd also took telephone messages when I wasn't around. There weren't many outside visits but two have stuck in my memory.

The first was when I looked on the pad and read, "Go to Mr. Pimmarov to see bulldog," in Mrs. Holroyd's careful backsloped script.

"Pimmarov?" I asked her. "Was he a Russian gentleman?"

"Dunno, luv, never asked 'im."

"Well-did he sound foreign? I mean did he speak broken English?"

"Nay, luv, Yorkshire as me, 'e were."

"Ah well, never mind, Mrs. Holroyd. What's his address?"

She gave me a surprised look. "How should ah know? He never said."

"But ... but Mrs. Holroyd. How can I visit him when I don't know where he lives?"

"Well you'll know best about that, luv."

I was baffled. "But he must have told you."

"Now then, young man, Pimmarov was all 'e told me. Said you would know." She stuck out her chin, her cigarette quivered and she regarded me stonily. Maybe she had had similar sessions with Stewie, but she left me in no doubt that the interview was over.

During the day I tried not to think about it but the knowledge that somewhere in the neighbourhood there was an ailing bulldog that I could not succour was worrying. I just hoped it was nothing fatal.

A phone call at 7 p.m. resolved my fears.

"Is that t'vet?" The voice was gruff and grumpy.

"Yes ... speaking."

"Well, ah've been waitin' all day for tha. When are you comin' to see ma flippin' bulldog?"

A light glimmered. But still ... that accent ... no suggestion of the Kremlin ... not a hint of the Steppes.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," I gabbled. "I'm afraid there's been a little misunderstanding. I'm doing Mr. Brannan's work and I don't know the district. I do hope your dog isn't seriously ill."

"Nay, nay, nobbut a bit o' cough, but ah want 'im seein' to."

"Certainly, certainly, I'll be right out, Mr. ... er ..."

"Pym's ma name and ah live next to t'post office in Roff village."

"Roff?"

"Aye, two miles outside Hensfield."

I sighed with relief. "Very good, Mr. Pym, I'm on my way."

"Thank ye." The voice sounded mollified. "Well, tha knows me now, don't tha-Pym o' Roff."

The light was blinding, "Pym o' Roff!" Such a simple explanation.

A lot of Mrs. Holroyd's messages were eccentric but I could usually interpret them after some thought. However one bizarre entry jolted me later in the week. It read simply: "Johnson, 12, Back Lane, Smiling Harry Syphilis."

I wrestled with this for a long time before making a diffident approach to Mrs. Holroyd.

She was kneading dough for scones and didn't look up as I entered the kitchen.

"Ah, Mrs. Holroyd." I rubbed my hands nervously. "I see you have written down that I have to go to Mr. Johnson's."

"That's right, luv."

"Well, er ... fine, but I don't quite understand the other part-the Smiling Harry Syphilis."

She shot a sidelong glance at me. "Well that's 'ow you spell the word, isn't it? Ah looked it up once in a doctor's book in our 'ouse," she said defensively.

"Oh yes, of course, yes, you've spelled it correctly. It's just the Smiling ... and the Harry."

Her eyes glinted dangerously and she blew a puff of smoke at me. "Well, that's what t'feller said. Repeated it three times. Couldn't make no mistake."

"I see. But did he mention any particular animal?"

"Naw, 'e didn't. That was what 'e said. That and no more." A grey spicule of ash toppled into the basin and was immediately incorporated in the scones. "Ah do ma best, tha knows!"

"Of course you do, Mrs. Holroyd," I said hastily. "I'll just pop round to Back Lane now."

And Mr. Johnson put everything right within seconds as he led me to a shed on his allotment.

"It's me pig, guvnor. Covered wi' big red spots. Reckon it's Swine Erysipelas."

Only he pronounced it arrysipelas and he did have a slurring mode of speech. I really couldn't blame Mrs. Holroyd.

Little things like that enlivened the week but the tension still mounted as I awaited the return of Kim. And even when the seventh day came round I was still in suspense because the Gillards did not appear at the morning surgery. When they failed to show up at the afternoon session I began to conclude that they had had the good sense to return south to a more sophisticated establishment. But at five thirty they were there.

I knew it even before I pulled the curtains apart. The smell of doom was everywhere, filling the premises, and when I went through the curtains it hit me; the sickening stink of putrefaction.

Gangrene. It was the fear which had haunted me all week and now it was realised.

There were about half a dozen other people in the waiting room, all keeping as far away as possible from the young couple who looked up at me with strained smiles. Kim tried to rise when he saw me but I had eyes only for the dangling useless hind limb where my once stone-hard plaster hung in sodden folds.

Of course it had to happen that the Gillards were last in and I was forced to see all the other animals first. I examined them and prescribed treatment in a stupor of misery and shame. What had I done to that beautiful dog out there? I had been crazy to try that experiment. A gangrenous leg meant that even amputation might be too late to save his life. Death from septicaemia was likely now and what the hell could I do for him in this ramshackle surgery?

When at last it was their turn the Gillards came in with Kim limping between them, and it was an extra stab to realise afresh what a handsome animal he was. I bent over the great golden head and for a moment the friendly eyes looked into mine and the tail waved.

"Right," I said to Peter Gillard, putting my arms under the chest. "You take the back end and we'll lift him up."

As we hoisted the heavy dog on to the table the flimsy structure disintegrated immediately, but this time the young people were ready for it and thrust their legs under the struts like a well-trained team till the surface was level again.

With Kim stretched on his side I fingered the bandage. It usually took time and patience with a special saw to remove a plaster but this was just a stinking pulp. My hands shook as I cut the bandage lengthways with scissors and removed it.

I had steeled myself against the sight of the cold dead limb with its green flesh but though there was pus and serous fluid everywhere the exposed flesh was a surprising, healthy pink. I took the foot in my hand and my heart gave a great bound. It was warm and so was the leg, right up to the hock. There was no gangrene.

Feeling suddenly weak I leaned against the table. "I'm sorry about the terrible smell. All the pus and discharge have been decomposing under the bandage for a week but despite the mess it's not as bad as I feared."

"Do you ... do you think you can save his leg?" Marjorie Gillard's voice trembled.

"I don't know. I honestly don't know. So much has to happen. But I'd say it was a case of so far so good."

I cleaned the area thoroughly with spirit, gave a dusting of iodoform and applied fresh lint and two more plaster bandages.

"You'll feel a lot more comfortable now, Kim," I said, and the big dog flapped his tail against the wood at the sound of his name.

I turned to his owners. "I want him to have another week in plaster, so what would you like to do?"

"Oh, we'll stay around Hensfield," Peter Gillard replied. "We've found a place for our caravan by the river-it's not too bad."

"Very well, till next Saturday, then." I watched Kim hobble out, holding his new white cast high, and as I went back into the house relief flowed over me in a warm wave.

But at the back of my mind the voice of caution sounded. There was still a long way to go ... .

CHAPTER 22.

THE SECOND WEEK WENT by without incident. I had a mildly indecent postcard from Stewie and a view of Blackpool Tower from his wife. The weather was scorching and they were having the best holiday of their lives. I tried to picture them enjoying themselves but I had to wait a few weeks for the evidence-a snap taken by a beach photographer. The whole family were standing in the sea, grinning delightedly into the camera as the wavelets lapped round their ankles. The children brandished buckets and spades, the baby dangled bandy legs towards the water, but it was Stewie who fascinated me. A smile of blissful contentment beamed from beneath a knotted handkerchief, sturdy braces supported baggy flannel trousers rolled decorously calf high. He was the archetype of the British father on holiday.

The last event of my stay in Hensfield was a visit to the local greyhound track. Stewie had an appointment there every other Friday to inspect the dogs.

The Hensfield stadium was not prepossessing from the outside. It had been built in a natural hollow in the sooty hills and was surrounded by ramshackle hoardings.

It was a cool night and as I drove down to the entrance I could hear the tinny blaring from the loudspeakers. It was George Formby singing "When I'm Cleaning Windows" and strumming on his famous ukelele.

There are all kinds of greyhound tracks. My own experience had been as a student, accompanying vets who officiated under the auspices of the National Greyhound Racing Club, but this was an unlicensed or "flapping" track, and vastly different. I know there are many highly reputable flapping tracks but this one had a seedy air. It was, I thought wryly, just the sort of place that would be under the care of Stewie.

First I had to go to the manager's office. Mr. Coker was a hard-eyed man in a shiny pin-striped suit and he nodded briefly before giving me a calculating stare.

"Your duties here are just a formality," he said, twisting his features into a smile. "There'll be nothing to trouble you."

I had the impression that he was assessing me with quiet satisfaction, looking me up and down, taking in my rumpled jacket and slacks, savouring my obvious youth and inexperience. He kept the smile going as he stubbed out his cigar. "Well, I hope you'll have a pleasant evening."

"Thank you," I replied, and left I met the judge, timekeeper and other officials then went down to a long glass-fronted bar overlooking the track. Quite suddenly I felt I was in an alien environment. The place was rapidly filling up and the faces around me were out of a different mould from the wholesome rural countenances of Darrowby. There seemed to be a large proportion of fat men in camel coats with brassy blondes in tow. Shifty-looking characters studied race cards and glared intently at the flickering numbers on the tote board.

I looked at my watch. It was time to inspect the dogs for the first race. "When I'm cleanin' winders!" bawled George Formby as I made my way round the edge of the track to the paddock, a paved enclosure with a wire-netting surround. Five dogs were being led round the perimeter and I stood in the centre and watched them for a minute or two. Then I halted them and went from one to the other, looking at their eyes, examining their mouths for salivation and finally palpating their abdomens.

They all appeared bright and normal except number four which seemed rather full in the stomach region. A greyhound should only have a light meal on the morning of a race and nothing thereafter and I turned to the man who was holding the animal.

"Has this dog been fed within the last hour or two?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "He's had nothing since breakfast."

As I passed my fingers over the abdomen again I had the feeling that several of the onlookers were watching me with unusual intentness. But I dismissed it as imagination and passed on to the next animal.

Number four was second favourite but from the moment it left its trap it was flagging. It finished last and from the darkness on the far side of the track a storm of booing broke out. I was able to make out some of the remarks which came across on the night air. "Open your bloody eyes, vet!" was one of them. And here, in the long, brightly lit bar I could see people nudging each other and looking at me.

I felt a thrill of anger. Maybe some of those gentlemen down there thought they could cash in on Stewie's absence. I probably looked a soft touch to them.

My next visit to the paddock was greeted with friendly nods and grins from all sides. In fact there was a strong atmosphere of joviality. When I went round the dogs all was well until I came to number five and this time I couldn't be mistaken. Under my probing fingers the stomach bulged tensely and the animal gave a soft grunt as I squeezed.