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  that young Metcalfets been brought up in a town, he's still got it in

  'im - he's got it through the titty, don't you see, through the titty."

  Maybe he was right, but whether Frank had it through the titty or

  through study and brains he had transformed the holding in a short time.

  When he wasn't milking, feeding, mucking out, he was slaving at that

  little byre, chipping stones, mixing cement, sand and dust clinging to

  the sweat on his face. And now, as he said, he was ready to start.

  As we came out of the dairy he pointed to another old building across

  the yard. "When I'm straightened out I aim to convert that into another

  byre. I've had to borrow a good bit but now I'm TT I should be able to

  clear it off in a couple of years. Sometime in the future if all goes

  well I might be able to get a bigger place altogether."

  He was about my own age and a natural friendship had sprung up between

  us. We used to sit under the low beams of his cramped living room with

  its single small window and sparse furniture and as his young wife

  poured cups of tea he liked to talk of his plans. And, listening to him,

  I always felt that a man like him would do well not only for himself but

  for farming in general.

  I looked at him now as he turned his head and gazed for a few moments

  round his domain. He didn't have to say: "I love this place, I feel I

  belong here." It was all there in his face, in the softening of his eyes

  as they moved over the huddle of grass fields cupped in a hollow of the

  fells. These fields, clawed by past generations from the rough hillside

  and fighting their age-old battle with heather and bracken, ran up to a

  ragged hem of cliff and scree and above you could just see the lip of

  the moor - a wild land of bog and peat hag. Below, the farm track

  disappeared round the bend of a wooded hill. The pastures were poor and

  knuckles of rock pushed out in places through the thin soil, but the

  clean, turf-scented air and the silence must have been like a

  deliverance after the roar and smoke of the steel-works.

  "Well we'd better see that cow, Frank," I said. "The new byre nearly

  made me forget what I came for."

  "Aye, it's this red and white 'un. My latest purchase and she's never

  been right since I got her. Hasn't come on to her milk properly and she

  seems dosy, somehow."

  The temperature was a hundred and three and as I put the thermometer

  away I sniffed. "She smells a bit, doesn't she?"

  "Aye," Frank said. "I've noticed that myself."

  "Better bring me some hot water, then. I'll have a feel inside."

  The uterus was filled with a stinking exudate and as I withdrew my arm

  there was a gush of yellowish, necrotic material. "Surely she must have

  had a bit of a discharge," I said.

  Frank nodded. "Yes, she has had, but I didn't pay much attention - a lot

  of them do it when they're clearing up after calving."

  I drained the uterus by means of a rubber tube and irrigated it with

  antiseptic, then I pushed in a few acriflavine pessaries. "That'll help

  to clean her up, and I think she'll soon be a lot better in herself, but

  I'm going to take a blood sample "Why's that?"

  Well it may be nothing, but I don't like the look of that yellow stuff.

  It consists of decayed~cotyledones - you know, the berries on the calf

  bed - and when they're that colour it's a bit suspicious of

  Brucellosis."

  "Abortion, you mean?" :

  "It's possible, Frank. She may have calved before her time or she may

  have calved normally but still been infected. Anyway the blood will tell

  us. Keep her isolated in the meantime."

  A few days later at breakfast time in Skeldale House I felt a quick stab

  of anxiety as I opened the lab report and read that the agglutination

  test on the blood had given a positive result. I hurried out to the

  farm.

  "How long have you had this cow?" I asked.

  "Just over three weeks," the young farmer replied.

  "And she's been running in the same field as your other cows and the

  in-calf heifers ?" +.

  "Yes, all the time." :

  I paused for a moment. "Frank, I'd better tell you the implications. I

  know you'll want to know what might happen. The source of infection in

  Brucellosis is the discharges of an infected cow and I'm afraid this

  animal of yours will have thoroughly contaminated that pasture. Any or

  all of your animals may have picked up the bug."

  "Does that mean they'll abort?"

  . : . :, , .

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  , L "Not necessarily. It varies tremendously. Many cows carry their

  calves through`' despite infection." I was doing my best to sound

  optimistic. ;

  Frank dug his hands deep into his pockets. His thin, dark-complexioned

  face was serious. "Damn, I wish I'd never seen the thing. I bought her

  at Houlton market - God knows where she came from, but it's too late to

  talk like that now What can we do about the job?"

  "The main thing is to keep her isolated and away from the other stock. I

  wish there was some way to protect the others but there isn't much we

  can do. There are only two types of vaccine - live ones which can only

  be given to empty cow" and yours are all in-calf, and dead ones which

  aren't reckoned to he of much use."

  "Well I'm the sort that doesn't like to just sit back and wait. The dead

  vaccine; won't do any harm if it doesn't do any good, will it?"

  "No."

  "Right, let's do 'em all with it and we'll hope for the best."

  Hoping for the best was something vets did a lot of in the thirties. I

  vaccinated" the entire herd and we waited.

  Nothing happened for a full eight weeks. Summer lengthened into autumn:

  and the cattle were brought inside. The infected cow improved, her

  discharge cleared up and she began to milk a bit better. Then Frank rang

  early once morning.

  "I've found a dead calf laid in the channel when I went in to milk. Will

  you come ?"

  It was a thinly-haired seven months foetus that I found. The cow looked

  sick and behind her dangled the inevitable retained placenta. Her udder

  which, if; she had calved normally would have been distended with milk,

  the precious milk Frank depended on for his livelihood, was almost

  empty.

  Obsessed by a feeling of helplessness I could only offer the same old

  advice isolate, disinfect - and hope.

  A fortnight later one of the in-calf heifers did it - she was a pretty

  little Jersey cross which Frank had hoped would push up his butter fat

  percentage - and a week after that one of the cows slipped a calf in her

  sixth month pregnancy.

  It was when I was visiting this third case that I met Mr. Bagley. Frard

  introduced him somewhat apologetically. "He says he has a cure for this

  trouble, Jim. He wants to talk to you about it."

  In every sticky situation there is always somebody who knows better than

  the vet. Subconsciously I suppose I had been waiting for a Mr. Bagley to

  turn up and I listened patiently He was very shor