I paused. "Well, as the internal glands enlarge, various things will happen. Ascites-dropsy-will develop in the abdomen. In fact you can see he's a little bit pot-bellied now."

"Yes ... I do see, now you mention it. Anything else?"

"As the thoracic glands get bigger he'll begin to pant."

"I've noticed that already. He's breathless after a short walk."

"And all the time he'll get thinner and thinner and more debilitated."

Paul looked down at his feet for a few moments then faced me. "So what it amounts to is that he's going to be pretty miserable for the rest of his life." He swallowed. "And how long is that going to be?"

"A few weeks. It varies. Maybe up to three months."

"Well, Jim." He smoothed back his hair. "I can't let that happen. It's my responsibility. You must put him to sleep now, before he really starts to suffer. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, Paul, it's the kindest thing to do."

"Will you do it immediately-as soon as I am out of that door?"

"I will," I replied. "And I promise you he won't know a thing."

His face held a curious fixity of expression. He put his pipe in his mouth, but it had gone out so he stuffed it into his pocket. Then he leaned forward and patted his dog once on the head. The bushy face with the funny shock of hair round the muzzle turned to him and for a few seconds they looked at each other.

Then, "Goodbye, old chap," he muttered and strode quickly from the room.

I kept my promise.

"Good lad, good old Theo," I murmured, and stroked the face and ears again and again as the little creature slipped peacefully away. Like all vets I hated doing this, painless though it was, but to me there has always been a comfort in the knowledge that the last thing these helpless animals knew was the sound of a friendly voice and the touch of a gentle hand.

Sentimental, maybe. Not like Paul. He had been practical and utterly rational in the way he had acted. He had been able to do the right thing because he was not at the mercy of his emotions.

Later, over a Sunday lunch which I didn't enjoy as much as usual I told Helen about Theo.

I had to say something because she had produced a delicious pot roast on the gas ring which was our only means of cooking and I wasn't doing justice to her skill.

Sitting at our bench I looked down at her. It was my turn for the high stool.

"You know, Helen," I said. "That was an object lesson for me. The way Paul acted, I mean. If I'd been in his position I'd have shilly-shallied-tried to put off something which was inevitable."

She thought for a moment. "Well, a lot of people would."

"Yes, but he didn't" I put down my knife and fork and stared at the wall. "He behaved in a mature way. I suppose Paul has one of those personalities you read about. Well-adjusted, completely adequate."

"Come on, Jim, eat your lunch. I know it was a sad thing but it had to be done and you mustn't start criticising yourself. Paul is Paul and you are you."

I started again on the meat but I couldn't repress the rising sense of my own inadequacy. Then as I glanced to one side I saw that my wife was smiling up at me.

I felt suddenly reassured. It seemed that she at least didn't seem to mind that I was me.

That was on the Sunday, and on Tuesday morning I was handing out some wart lotion to Mr. Sangster who kept a few dairy cows down by the station.

"Dab that on the udder night and morning after milking," I said. "I think you'll find that the warts will start to drop off after a week or two."

"Thank ye." He handed over half a crown and I was dropping it into the desk drawer when he spoke again.

"Bad job about Paul Cotterell, wasn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Ah thought you'd have heard," he said. "He's dead."

"Dead!" I stared at him stupidly. "How ... what ... ?"

"Found 'im this mornin'. He did away with 'isself."

I leaned with both hands on the desk. "Do you mean ... suicide?"

"Aye, that's what they say. Took a lot o' pills. It's all ower t'town."

I found myself hunching over the day book, sightlessly scanning the list of calls while the farmer's voice seemed to come from far away.

"It's a bad job, right enough. He were a nice feller. Reckon everybody liked 'im."

Later that day I was passing Paul's lodgings when I saw his landlady, Mrs. Clayton, in the doorway. I pulled up and got out of the car.

"Mrs. Clayton," I said. "I still can't believe this."

"Nor can I, Mr. Herriot it's terrible." Her face was pale, her eyes red. "He was with me six years, you know-he was like a son."

"But why on earth ...?"

"Oh, it was losin' his dog that did it. He just couldn't stand it."

A great wave of misery rose and engulfed me and she put her hand on my arm.

"Don't look like that, Mr. Herriot. It wasn't your fault. Paul told me all about it and nobody could have saved Theo. People die of that, never mind dogs."

I nodded dumbly and she went on.

"But I'll tell you something in confidence, Mr. Herriot. Paul wasn't able to stand things like you or me. It was the way he was made-you see he suffered from depression."

"Depression! Paul ...?"

"Oh yes, he's been under the doctor for a long time and takin' pills regular. He allus put a brave face on, but he's had nervous trouble off and on for years."

"Nervous trouble ... I'd never have dreamed ..."

"No, nobody would, but that's how it was. He had an unhappy childhood from what I made out. Maybe that's why he was so fond of his dog. He got too attached to him, really."

"Yes ... yes ..."

She took out a screwed up handkerchief and blew her nose. "Well, as I said, the poor lad had a rough time most of his life, but he was brave."

There didn't seem anything else to say. I drove away out of the town and the calm green hills offered a quiet contrast to the turmoil which can fill a man's mind. So much for Herriot as a judge of character. I couldn't have been more wrong, but Paul had fought his secret battle with a courage which had deceived everybody.

I thought of the object lesson which I thought he had given me, but in fact it was a lesson of another kind and one which I have never forgotten; that there are countless people like Paul who are not what they seem.

CHAPTER 38.

THE SHOCK OF PAUL Cotterell's death stayed with me for a long time, and in fact I know I have never quite got over it because even now when the company in the bar of the Drovers' has changed and I am one of the few old faces left from thirty-five years ago I can still see the jaunty figure on the corner stool and the bushy face peeping from beneath.

It was the kind of experience I didn't want repeated in my lifetime yet, uncannily, I ran into the same sort of thing almost immediately afterwards.

It couldn't have been more than a week after Paul's funeral that Andrew Vine brought his fox terrier to the surgery.

I put the little dog on the table and examined each of his eyes carefully in turn.

"I'm afraid he's getting worse," I said.

Without warning the man slumped across the table and buried his face in his hands.

I put my hand on his shoulder. "What is it, Andrew? What on earth's the matter?"

At first he did not answer but stayed there, huddled grotesquely by the side of his dog as great sobs shook his body.

When he spoke at last it was into his hands and his voice was hoarse and desperate. "I can't stand it! If Digger goes blind I'll kill myself!"

I looked down at the bowed head in horrified disbelief. It couldn't be happening again. Not so soon after Paul. And yet there were similarities. Andrew was another bachelor in his thirties and the terrier was his constant companion. He lived in lodgings and appeared to have no worries though he was a shy, diffident man with a fragile look about his tall stooping frame and pallid face.

He had first consulted me about Digger several months ago.

"I call him that because he's dug large holes in the garden ever since his puppy days," he said with a half smile, looking at me almost apprehensively from large dark eyes.

I laughed. "I hope you haven't brought him to me to cure that, because I've never read anything in the books about it."

"No, no, it's about something else-his eyes. And he's had that trouble since he was a pup, too."

"Really? Tell me."

"Well, when I first got him he had sort of mattery eyes, but the breeder said he'd probably just got some irritant in them and it would soon clear up. And in fact it did. But he's never been quite right. He always seems to have a little discomfort in his eyes."

"How do you mean?"

"He rubs the side of his face along the carpet and he blinks in bright light."

"I see." I pulled the little animal's face around towards me and looked intently at the eyelids. My mind had been busy as he spoke and I was fairly sure I should find either entropion (inversion of the eyelids) or distichiasis (an extra row of lashes rubbing against the eyeball) but there was no sign of either. The surface of the cornea, too, looked normal, except perhaps that the deeper structures of lens and iris were not as easy to define as usual.

I moved over to a cupboard for the ophthalmoscope. "How old is he now?"

"About a year."

"So he's had this for about ten months?"

"Yes, about that. But it varies a lot. Most of the time he seems normal then there are days when he goes and lies in his basket with his eyes half closed and you can tell there's something wrong. Not pain, really. More like discomfort as I said."

I nodded and hoped I was looking wise but none of this added up to anything familiar. I switched on the little light on the ophthalmoscope and peered into the depths of that most magical and delicate of all organs, down through the lens to the brilliant tapestry of the retina with its optic papilla and branching blood vessels. I couldn't find a thing wrong.

"Does he still dig holes?" I asked. When baffled I often snatch at straws and I wondered if the dog was suffering from a soil irritation.

Andrew shook his head. "No, very seldom now, and anyway, his bad days are never associated with his digging."

"Is that so?" I rubbed my chin. The man was obviously ahead of me with his thinking and I had an uncomfortable feeling of bewilderment. People were always bringing their dogs in with "bad eyes" and there was invariably something to be seen, some cause to be found. "And would you say that this was one of his bad days?"

"Well I thought so this morning, but he seems a bit better now. Still, he's a bit blinky, don't you think?"

"Yes ... maybe so." Digger did appear to be reluctant to open his eyes fully to the sunshine streaming through the surgery window. And occasionally he kept them closed for a second or two as though he wasn't very happy. But damn it, nothing gave me the slightest clue.

I didn't tell the owner that I hadn't the faintest idea what was wrong with his dog. Such remarks do not inspire confidence. Instead, I took refuge in businesslike activity.

"I'm going to give you some lotion," I said briskly. "Put a few drops into his eyes three times daily. And let me know how he goes on. It's possible he has some long-standing infection in there."

I handed over a bottle of 2% boric acid solution and patted Digger's head. "I hope that will clear things up for you, lad," I said, and the stumpy tail wagged in reply. He was a sharp looking little animal, attractive and good-natured and a fine specimen of the smooth-haired breed with his long head and neck, pointed nose and beautifully straight limbs.

He jumped from the table and leaped excitedly around his master's legs.

I laughed. "He's eager to go, like most of my patients." I bent and slapped him playfully on the rump. "My word, doesn't he look fit!"

"He is fit." Andrew smiled proudly. "In fact I often think that apart from those eyes he's a perfect little physical machine. You should see him out in the fields-he can run like a whippet."

"I'll bet he can. Keep in touch, will you?" I waved them out of the door and turned to my other work, mercifully unaware that I had just embarked on one of the most frustrating cases of my career.

After that first time I took special notice of Digger and his owner. Andrew, a sensitive likeable man, was a representative for a firm of agricultural chemists and, like myself, spent most of his time driving around the Darrowby district. His dog was always with him and I had been perfunctorily amused by the fact that the little animal was invariably peering intently through the windscreen, his paws either on the dash or balanced on his master's hand as he operated the gear lever.

But now that I was personally interested I could discern the obvious delight which the little animal derived from taking in every detail of his surroundings. He missed nothing in his daily journeys. The road ahead, the houses and people, trees and fields which flashed by the windows-these made up his world.

I met him one day when I was exercising Sam up on the high moors which crown the windy summits of the fells. But this was May, the air was soft and a week's hot sunshine had dried the green paths which wandered among the heather. I saw Digger flashing like a white streak over the velvet turf and when he spotted Sam he darted up to him, set himself teasingly for a moment then shot back to Andrew who was standing in a natural circular glade among the harsh brown growth.

Here gorse bushes blazed in full yellow glory and the little dog hurtled round and round the arena, exulting in his health and speed.

"That's what I'd call sheer joy of living," I said.