Outside in the market-place I stood for a moment, drawing in the cool air. I took Helen's arm and was about to move on when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked down at the sweet face of Mrs. Dryden. She was smiling at me.

"Eee, Mr. Herriot, I'm right sorry you didn't get the house, but you've done a lot for me-you'll never know how much. I've got all that extra money to put by me, thanks to you. Believe me, it'll make all the difference in the world. I can't thank you enough."

As she walked away, I looked at her thin, bent figure and her white hair. There was the wife of good old Bob Dryden and he would have been pleased. I had done something after all.

Chapter 13.

I UNWOUND THE SPIRAL Hudson's instrument from the cow's teat and drew forth a strong jet of milk.

"Eee, that's wonderful, marvellous," breathed Mr. Dowson reverently. "I don't know 'ow you do it-you've saved me again. You're a great man, Mr. Herriot."

We were still doing a lot of these teat operations, because milking-machines had not come into general use and the farmers' h.o.r.n.y-handed pulling at the cows' teats often resulted in damage to the lining and blockage. It wasn't a particularly popular procedure with the vets, because there was an excellent chance of having your head kicked off as you crouched down there by the udder, but it was undeniably satisfying to bring a useless teat back to life. A lot of a cow's value was lost when she became a "three-t.i.tted 'un."

However, valuable though the operation was to a farmer, it was most unusual to receive profuse grat.i.tude like Mr. Dowson's. But it was always like that with him. He poured praise on me and though, over the years, I was sure that all my cases on his farm hadn't been triumphs, that was how he pictured it. If anything had gone wrong in the past he would never admit it.

This was in direct contrast to most of our farmer clients. No matter how brilliant a feat of healing we pulled off we very rarely heard anything about it. Siegfried's theory was that they didn't like to mention our cures in case we put a bit extra on the bill, and he may have had a point because they never failed to inform us about our failures-"Hey, that beast you treated never did any good," often embarra.s.singly shouted across a crowded market-place.

Be that as it may, Mr. Dowson's att.i.tude was always balm to my soul. He was gazing at me now as I put the instrument back in its bottle of spirit, his little brown face crinkled in a benevolent smile. He pulled off his cap and smoothed back the straggling white hair from his brow.

"Ah don't know. There's no end to your cleverness. I was just thinking of that cow of mine with magnesium deficiency. She was laid there like a dead thing-ah was sure she'd stopped breathin'-but you put a bottle into 'er vein, then you looked at your watch. 'Mr. Dowson,' you said, 'this beast will get up on her legs in exactly twelve and a half minutes.' ?

"I did?"

"Ah'm not jokin' nor jestin', that's what you said, and you can believe me or believe me not, just the very second the hands on your watch got round to twelve and a half minutes that cow jumped up and walked away."

"Good heavens! Did she really?"

"She did that, and I'll tell you summat else, she's never looked back since."

"Well, that's great." I had the same feeling of bewilderment as I always felt at Mr. Dowson's panegyrics. I could never remember the magical things I had done, but it was very pleasant all the same. Was I really that brilliant or did he make it all up? His habitual phrase of "believe me or believe me not" suggested that he may have had doubts about it himself, but that didn't alter the fact that his eulogies were always delivered with the greatest certainty and emphasis.

Even the surroundings of his farm were idyllic, and as I walked to my car with a gentle breeze, full of the scents of summer, eddying around me, I looked back at the little farmhouse tucked into the green hillside that dipped down over rig and furrow to the river, sparkling in the sunshine.

As always, I drove away in a rosy glow with Mr. Dowson waving till I was out of sight.

I was back there again within a week to deal with a calving heifer. Mr. Dowson was worried because she was overdue, but the delivery was uneventful and I soon had a large bull calf snuffling and snorting among the straw in the byre.

"Well, that's fine," I said. "Sometimes these big calves are a bit late. It was a tight squeeze, but all's well."

"Aye, aye," said the farmer. "There was no need to worry. I should've known. You told me more than a month ago that that heifer would be exackly five days late, and you were right as usual."

"Did I really say that? I don't see how I would know...."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, Mr. Herriot, them was your words. I ought to remember them."

As we left the byre, Mr. Dowson stopped to pat a little Dales pony that was happily cropping the gra.s.s by the side of the house. "Remember this little feller? Remember that bad stoppage he had?"

"Ah, yes, of course I do. He looks fine now."

"He does that, and by gaw 'e was ill! Thought ah was going to lose 'im. Right bunged up and groanin' in pain he was. I'd given him all sorts o' medicines to try to move 'is bowels but they did no good!-nothing came through 'im for two whole days. Then I got you in and I'll never forget what you did."

"What did I do?"

"Ah tell ye, it were like a miracle. You came in the morning and you gave him two injections and you said to me, 'Mr. Dowson, his bowels will move at two o'clock this afternoon.' ?

"I said that?"

"You did an' all, and then you said, 'At first he'll pa.s.s exackly a handful, just like this.' ? He cupped his hands to ill.u.s.trate. "And right on two o'clock that's what 'e did. No more, no less."

"Gosh!"

"Aye, and then you said, 'At half past two he'll pa.s.s just enough to fill that small shovel.' ? Mr. Dowson hurried busily over to the house and picked up a little shovel that stood by the coal-bunker. He held it out to me. "There's the very thing. And right on the dot by my watch he pa.s.sed just the amount you said. I measured it."

"Never! Are you sure?"

"You can believe me or believe me not. Then you said, 'At three o'clock he'll have a good clear-out,' and that's just what happened. I was lookin' at my watch when he c.o.c.ked his tail and got rid of everything that was troubling 'im. And he's been right as ninepence ever since."

"Well, that's wonderful, Mr. Dowson. I'm so pleased to hear it." I shook my head to dispel the mists of fantasy that had begun to billow around me. I am a run-of-the-mill veterinary surgeon, hard-working and conscientious, but that's all, and it knocks me out of my stride to be hailed as a genius, but as always, listening to Mr. Dowson was like soothing oil being poured on my oft-bruised ego. I had to admit I enjoyed it, and I didn't demur when he went on.

"And while you're 'ere, just have a look at this pig." He took my arm and led me into an outbuilding. "There she is," he said, leaning over a pen and pointing to a fine big sow stretched on the straw with a litter of piglets sucking busily at her teats. "That's the one that had that nasty great swelling on her foot. Dead lame she was, and I was right worried about 'er. You gave her a jab and left me some salve to rub on the lump and next morning it was gone!"

"You mean...it vanished overnight? All of it?"

"Aye, that's right, ah'm not jokin' nor jestin'. It was gone!"

"Well...that's quite amazing."

"Not to me, it isn't, Mr. Herriot. Everything you do for me turns out right. Ah don't know what I'd do without you."

Even through my confusion I found his faith touching. I hoped it would never be shattered.

I thought that moment had arrived when Mr. Dowson called me to his farm a few weeks later.

"What's the trouble this time?" I asked.

The old man rubbed his chin. "Well, it's a funny one, I tell you. It's this calf." He pointed to a st.u.r.dy young animal about a month old. "He won't drink 'is milk properly. Look. I'll show ye." He tipped some milk into a big bucket and set it down in front of the little creature, but the calf, instead of drinking, put his head down and, with a fierce b.u.t.t, sent the bucket flying, spilling the milk in all directions.

"Does he do this every time?"

"Aye, knocks it over every time. It's a dang nuisance. Wastes me good milk, too."

I examined the calf, then turned to the farmer. "He seems perfectly healthy to me."

"Oh, aye, he is. Fit as a flea and full o' life. It's just this one thing wi' the bucket. I thought you'd maybe be able to give 'im one of your magic injections to stop him doin' it."

"Well, really, Mr. Dowson," I said, laughing. "This isn't a medical problem, it's psychological. He just doesn't like buckets. I'm afraid I can't do anything for you this time. Can't you hold the bucket while he drinks?"

"Yes, that's what I have to do, but even then 'e keeps bashin' at it with his head." He dug his hands into his pockets and gave me a crestfallen look. "Ah'm sure you could do something. You say it's not a medical problem, but it's an animal problem and everythin' you've done for me wi' animals has been successful. I wish you'd have a try. Go on, give 'im an injection."

I looked at the old man's doleful face. I had a feeling that if I walked off the farm without doing something, he would be truly upset. How could I please him without being an absolute charlatan? If I didn't inject something it was going to break his heart, but what...what...? Mentally I searched the contents of my car boot and was beginning to despair when in my mind's eye I saw the bottle of thiamine-vitamin B injection. We used it for a brain disease called cerebrocortical necrosis and, of course, the calf wasn't suffering from that or anything like it, but at least it had to do with the head. Anyway, I stilled my conscience with the thought that I wouldn't charge the old man anything.

I hurried to the car. "I'll give him a shot of this," I said and was rewarded by a radiant smile lighting up Mr. Dowson's face. I injected a few c.c.'s with the knowledge that I wasn't doing any harm. The injection would be useless, but it was serving its purpose. The old man was happy, and, really, when I thought about it, it would be no bad thing if, for once, my treatment was ineffective. My mantle of infallibility would be stripped from me and I wouldn't be expected to do the impossible any more.

It was more than a month before I saw Mr. Dowson again. He was leaning over a rail at the cattle market and he waved and came over to me. I was intrigued at the prospect that for the first time ever he would have to report a failure. What words would he employ? He had never had to do it before. And I was pretty sure that he would hate telling me.

He looked up at me with wide eyes. "Well, you've done it again, Mr. Herriot!"

"Done it again...?" I looked at him blankly.

"Aye, that calf. Your injection worked."

"What!"

"It did an' all." The familiar happy smile flooded over his face. "He's never b.u.t.ted a bucket since that day!"

Chapter 14.

SOMETIMES, WHEN OUR DOG and cat patients died the owners brought them in for us to dispose of them. It was always a sad occasion and I had a sense of foreboding when I saw old d.i.c.k Fawcett's face.

He put the improvised cat box on the surgery table and looked at me with unhappy eyes.

"It's Frisk," he said. His lips trembled as though he was unable to say more.

I didn't ask any questions, but began to undo the strings on the cardboard container. d.i.c.k couldn't afford a proper cat box, but he had used this one before, a home-made affair with holes punched in the sides.

I untied the last knot and looked inside at the motionless body. Frisk. The glossy black, playful little creature I knew so well, always purring and affectionate and d.i.c.k's companion and friend.

"When did he die, d.i.c.k?" I asked.

He pa.s.sed a hand over his haggard face and through the straggling grey hairs. "Well, I just found 'im stretched out by my bed this morning. But...I don't rightly know if he's dead yet, Mr. Herriot."

I looked again inside the box. There was no sign of breathing. I lifted the limp form onto the table and touched the cornea of the unseeing eye. No reflex. I reached for my stethoscope and placed it over the chest.

"The heart's still going, d.i.c.k, but it's a very faint beat."

"Might stop any time, you mean?"

I hesitated. "Well, that's the way it sounds, I'm afraid."

As I spoke, the little cat's rib-cage lifted slightly, then subsided.

"He's still breathing," I said. "But only just." I examined the cat thoroughly and found nothing unusual. The conjunctiva of the eye was a good colour. In fact there was no abnormality.

I pa.s.sed a hand over the sleek little body. "This is a puzzler, d.i.c.k. He's always been so lively-lived up to his name, in fact, yet here he is, flat out, and I can't find any reason for it."

"Could he have 'ad a stroke or summat?"

"I suppose it's just possible, but I wouldn't expect him to be totally unconscious. I'm wondering if he might have had a blow on the head."

"I don't think so. He was as right as rain when I went to bed, and he was never out during t'night." The old man shrugged his shoulders. "Any road, it's a poor look-out for 'im?"

"Afraid so, d.i.c.k. He's only just alive. But I'll give him a stimulant injection and then you must take him home and keep him warm. If he's still around tomorrow morning bring him in and I'll see how he's going on."

I was trying to strike an optimistic note, but I was pretty sure that I would never see Frisk again and I knew the old man felt the same.

His hands shook as he tied up the box and he didn't speak until we reached the front door. He turned briefly to me and nodded. "Thank ye, Mr. Herriot."

I watched him as he walked with shuffling steps down the street. He was going back to an empty little house with his dying pet. He had lost his wife many years ago-I had never known a Mrs. Fawcett-and he lived alone on his old-age pension. It wasn't much of a life. He was a quiet, kindly man who didn't go out much and seemed to have few friends, but he had Frisk. The little cat had walked in on him six years ago and had transformed his life, bringing a boisterous, happy presence into the silent house, making the old man laugh with his tricks and playfulness, following, him around, rubbing against his legs. d.i.c.k wasn't lonely any more, and I had watched a warm bond of friendship growing stronger over the years. In fact, it was something more-the old man seemed to depend on Frisk. And now this.

Well, I thought as I walked back down the pa.s.sage, it was the sort of thing that happened in veterinary practice. Pets didn't live long enough. But I felt worse this time because I had no idea what ailed my patient. I was in a total fog.

On the following morning I was surprised to see d.i.c.k Fawcett sitting in the waiting room, the cardboard box on his knee.

I stared at him. "What's happened?"

He didn't answer and his face was inscrutable as we went through to the consulting room and he undid the knots. When he opened the box I prepared for the worst, but to my astonishment the little cat leaped out onto the table and rubbed his face against my hand, purring like a motorcycle.

The old man laughed, his thin face transfigured. "Well, what d'ye think of that?"

"I don't know what to think, d.i.c.k!" I examined the little animal carefully. He was completely normal. "All I know is that I'm delighted. It's like a miracle."

"No, it isn't," he said. "It was that injection you gave 'im. It's worked wonders. I'm right grateful."

Well, it was kind of him, but it wasn't as simple as that. There was something here I didn't understand, but never mind. Thank heaven it had ended happily.

The incident had receded into a comfortable memory when, three days later, d.i.c.k Fawcett reappeared at the surgery with his box. Inside was Frisk, motionless, unconscious, just as before.

Totally bewildered, I repeated the injection and on the following day the cat was normal. From then on, I was in the situation that every veterinary surgeon knows so well-being involved in a baffling case and waiting with a feeling of impending doom for something tragic to happen.

Nothing did happen for nearly a week, then Mrs. Duggan, d.i.c.k's neighbour, telephoned.

"I'm ringin' on behalf of Mr. Fawcett. His cat's ill."