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  trust him an inch."

  "And how," I asked without enthusiasm, 'am I supposed to get a sample of

  blood from him?"

  "Oh I'll trap his head in yon corner." Harry pointed to a metal yoke

  above a trough in an opening into the yard at the far side of the box.

  "I'll give him some meal to 'tice him in." He went back down the passage

  and soon I could see him out in the yard scooping meal into the trough.

  The bull at first took no notice and continued to prod at the wall with

  his horns, then he turned with awesome slowness, took a few unhurried

  steps across the box and put his nose down to the trough. Harry, out of

  sight in the yard, pulled the lever and the yoke crashed shut on the

  great neck.

  "All right," the farmer cried, hanging on to the lever, "I have 'im. You

  can go in now."

  I opened the door and entered the box and though the bull was held fast

  by the head there was still the uneasy awareness that he and I were

  alone in the t small space together. And as I passed along the massive

  body and put my hand on the neck I sensed a quivering emanation of pent

  up power and rage. Digging my fingers into the jugular furrow I watched

  the vein rise up and poised my needle. It would take a good hard thrust

  to pierce that leathery skin.

  The bull stiffened but did not move as I plunged the needle in and with

  relief I saw the blood flowing darkly into the syringe. Thank God I had

  hit the vein first time and didn't have to start poking around. I was

  withdrawing the needle and thinking that the job had been so simple

  after all when everything started to happen. The bull gave a tremendous

  bellow and whipped round at me with no trace of his former lethargy. I

  saw that he had got one horn out of the yoke and though he couldn't

  reach me with his head his shoulder knocked me on my back with a

  terrifying revelation of unbelievable strength. I heard Harry shouting

  from outside and as I scrambled up and headed for the box door I saw

  that the madly plunging creature had almost got his second horn clear

  and when I reached the passage I heard the clang of the yoke as he

  finally freed himself.

  Anybody who has travelled a narrow passage a few feet ahead of about a

  ton of snorting, pounding death will appreciate that I didn't dawdle. I

  was spurred on by the certain knowledge that if Monty caught me he would

  plaster me against the wall as effortlessly as I would squash a ripe

  plum, and though I was clad in a long oilskin coat and Wellingtons I

  doubt whether an olympic sprinter in full running kit would have

  bettered my time.

  I made the door at the end with a foot to spare, dived through and

  crashed it shut. The first thing I saw was Harry Sumner running round

  from the outside of the box. He was very pale. I couldn't see my face

  but it felt pale; even my lips were cold and numb.

  "God, I'm sorry!" Harry said hoarsely. "The yoke couldn't have closed

  properly - that bloody great neck of his. The lever just jerked out of

  my hand. Damn, I'm glad to see you - I thought you were a goner!"

  I looked down at my hand. The blood-filled syringe was still tightly

  clutched there. "Well I've got my sample anyway, Harry. And it's just as

  well, because ;

  it Would take some fast talking to get me in there to try for another.

  I'm afraid you've just seen the end of a beautiful friendship." Y aye,

  the big sod!" Harry listened for a few moments to the thudding of

  Monty's horns against the door. "And after all you did for him. That's

  gratitude for you.

  Chapter Eleven.

  I suppose if it hadn't been for the Tuberculin Testing scheme I'd never

  have come to know Ewan and Ginny Ross.

  Siegfried broached the matter to me one morning as I was making up some

  colic mixture in the dispensary.

  "All this extra testing work is a bit much for a one-man practice,

  especially when it's an older man. Ewan Ross has been on the phone

  asking me if I could help him and we've thrashed out a plan which could

  benefit us both. But it depends on you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, would you be willing to go up to Scarburn and do his testing say

  three days a week? Ewan and I would split the proceeds and you'd get a

  little cut too."

  I screwed a cork into the last bottle. "It's all right with me. I'd

  enjoy a bit of fresh country. It's real wild up there - about

  twenty-five miles away isn't it?"

  "Just about. It is a bit bleak, but it's beautiful in fine weather. And

  I'm sure you'll get on with Ewan."

  "I've heard quite a lot about him." I laughed. "They say he'd rather

  settle down with a bottle than work.", Siegfried turned a level gaze on

  me. "They say a lot things but he's a good friend of mine and just about

  the best veterinary surgeon I've ever seen." He paused for a moment then

  went on. "I want you to go up there tomorrow to meet him, then you can

  judge for yourself."

  As I drove out next morning I reflected on the snippets which had come

  through to me about Ewan Ross. I didn't know all that much about him;

  twenty-five miles was enough to make him remote from my own working area

  and in any case hard drinking and wild behaviour were the norm among the

  older members of the profession. The more recent graduates were a

  different type altogether; more scientifically orientated, more

  conscious of professional standards; but the men who had been on the go

  for twenty years or more, many of them ex-servicemen, were a

  hard-bitten, rugged lot of characters. Most of them had had a hell of a

  life, working single-handed through the years when times were hard,

  money short and the work at its roughest and I suppose they just had to

  erupt now and then.

  Ewan Ross, it was said, would incarcerate himself in some village pub

  and go on a bender lasting days on end until his wife finally managed to

  winkle him out and entice him back to his practice. People said, too,

  that he liked to challenge big farm men in bars to 'take a hold" - to

  shake hands with him and have a test of grip which usually finished with

  the big man on the floor. There were tales, too, of brushes with the

  police - he'd lost his licence for a while for being drunk m charge of a

  car - and other things.

  The scene beyond my car windows was changing all the time as I drove.

  The Dales country around Darrowby was softened by the trees which lined

  the valley floors and by the lush, level pastures by the rivers where

  they wandered among leisurely shallows. But this was the high Pennines,

  the harsh, wind-blown roof of England, almost treeless with only the

  endless miles of dry stone walls climbing and cries-crossing over the

  bald heights.

  And, driving into Scarburn, it occurred to me that this was just the

  sort of place some seedy character would want to hole up. It was only

  too easy to picture the broken-down vet and his harassed, blowsy wife. I

  had always thought Darrowby was quiet and a bit rough-hewn but it was a

  sophisticated metropolis compared to Scarburn.

  On this windy, sunl