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  I filled a syringe. “Right we’d better give them all a shot. Have you got a marking pencil there?”

  The farmer nodded and lifted one of the little animals which promptly unleashed a protesting scream. “There was never anybody like awd Wilfred,” he shouted above the noise. “It was about half past two and the wicket had had a shower of rain on it when t’skipper threw ’im the ball.”

  I smiled and raised my syringe. It passed the time so pleasantly listening to these reminiscences. Well content, I was about to plunge the needle into the pink thigh when one of the pigs began to nibble at the heel of my Wellington. I looked down at a ring of the little creatures all looking up at me, alarmed by the shrill screeches of their friend.

  My mind was still with Wilfred Rhodes when I noticed what looked like a small white knob on one of the uptilted snouts. And there was another on that one—and that one … I had been unable to see their faces until now because they had been trying to run away from me, but a warning bell clanged suddenly in my head.

  I reached down and seized a pig, and as I squeezed the swelling on the snout a cold wind blew through me, scattering the gentle vision of cricket and sunshine and green grass. It wasn’t a knob, it was a vesicle, a delicate blister which ruptured easily on pressure.

  I could feel my arms shaking as I turned the piglet up and began to examine the tiny cloven feet. There were more vesicles there, flatter and more diffuse, but telling the same dread story.

  Dry mouthed, I lifted two other pigs. They were just the same. As I turned to the farmer I felt bowed down by a crushing weight of pity, almost of guilt. He was still smiling eagerly, anxious to get on with his tale, and I was about to give him the worst news a veterinary surgeon can give a stockman.

  “Mr. Duggleby,” I said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to telephone the Ministry of Agriculture.”

  “The Ministry …? What for?’

  “To tell them I have a case of suspected Foot and Mouth Disease.”

  “Foot and Mouth? Never!”

  “Yes, I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s not up to me to be definite about it Mr. Duggleby. One of the Ministry officers will have to do that—I must ’phone them right away.”

  It was an unlikely place to find a telephone but Mr. Duggleby ran a little coal delivery round on the side. I was quickly through to the Ministry and I spoke to Neville Craggs, one of the full time officers.

  He groaned. “Sounds awful like it Jim. Anyway, stay put till I see you.”

  In the farm kitchen Mr. Duggleby looked at me enquiringly. “What now?”

  “You’ll just have to put up with me for a bit” I said. “I can’t leave till I get the verdict.”

  He was silent for a moment. “What happens if it’s what you think?”

  “I’m afraid your pigs will have to be slaughtered.”

  “Every one of ’em?”

  “That is the law—I’m sorry. But you’ll get compensation.”

  He scratched his head. “But they can get better. Why do you have to kill ’em all?”

  “You’re quite right” I shrugged. “Many animals do recover, but Foot and Mouth is fiercely infectious. While you were treating them it would have spread to neighbouring farms, then all over the country.”

  “Aye, but look at the expense. Slaughtering must cost thousands o’ pounds.”

  “I agree, but it would cost a lot more the other way. Apart from the animals that die, just think of the loss of milk, loss of flesh in cows, pigs and sheep. It would come to millions every year. It’s lucky Britain is an island.”

  “Reckon you’ll be right.” He felt for his pipe. “And you’re pretty sure I’ve got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aye well,” he murmured. “These things ’appen.”

  The old Yorkshire words. I had heard them so often under circumstances that would make most city folk, including myself, beat their heads against a wall. Mr. Duggleby’s smallholding would soon be a silent place of death, but he just chewed his pipe and said, “These things ’appen.”

  It didn’t take the Ministry long to make up their minds. The source of the infection was almost certainly some imported meat that Mr. Duggleby hadn’t boiled properly with his swill. The disease was confirmed and a fifteen mile radius standstill order was imposed. I disinfected myself and my car and went home. I undressed, my clothes were taken away for fumigation and I climbed into a hot antiseptic bath.

  Lying there in the steam, I pondered on what might have been. If I had failed to spot the disease I would have gone merrily on my way, spreading destruction and havoc. I always washed my boots before leaving a farm, but how about those little pigs nibbling round the hem of my long coat how about my syringe, even my thermometer? My next call was to have been to Terence Bailey’s pedigree herd of dairy shorthorns—two hundred peerless cows, a strain built up over generations. Foreigners came from all over the world to buy them and I could have been the cause of their annihilation.

  And then there was Mr. Duggleby himself. I could picture him rattling around the farms in his coal wagon. He would have done his bit of spreading, too. And like as not he would have taken a few store pigs to the auction mart this week, sending the deadly contagion all over Yorkshire and beyond. It was easy to see how a major outbreak could have started—a disaster of national importance costing millions.

  If I hadn’t been sweating already I would have started now at the very thought of it. I would have joined the unhappy band of practitioners who had missed Foot and Mouth.

  I knew of some of these people and my heart bled for them. It could happen so easily. Busy men trying to examine kicking, struggling animals in dark buildings with perhaps part of their mind on the list of calls ahead. And the other hazards—the total unexpectedness, the atypical case, various distractions. My distraction had been cricket and it had nearly caused my downfall. But I had escaped and, huddling lower in the hot water, I said a silent prayer of thanks.

  Later, with a complete change of clothes and instruments, I continued on my rounds and as I stood in Terence Bailey’s long byre I realised my luck again. The long rows of beautiful animals meticulously groomed, firm high udders pushing between their hocks, delicate heads, fine legs deep in straw; they were a picture of bovine perfection and quite irreplaceable.

  Once Foot and Mouth is confirmed in a district there is a tense period of waiting. Farmers, veterinary surgeons and, most of all, Ministry officials are on the rack, wondering if there has been any dissemination before diagnosis, bracing themselves against the telephone message that could herald the raging spread they dreaded and which would tear their lives apart.

  To the city dwellers a big Foot and Mouth outbreak is something remote they read about in the newspapers. To the country folk it means the transformation of the quiet farms and fields into charnel houses and funeral pyres. It means heartbreak and ruin.

  We waited in Darrowby. And as the days passed and no frightening news of lame or salivating animals came over the wires it seemed that the Duggleby episode was what we hoped—an isolated case caused by a few shreds of imported meat.

  I almost bathed in disinfectant on every farm, sloshing a strong solution of Lysol over my boots and protective clothing so that my car reeked of the stuff and I caused wrinkled noses when I entered a shop, the post office, the bank.

  After nearly two weeks I had begun to feel reasonably safe but when I had a call from the famous Bailey farm I felt a twinge of apprehension.

  It was Terence Bailey himself. “Will you come and see one of my cows, Mr. Herriot? She’s got blisters on one of her teats.”

  “Blisters!” My heart went bump. “Is she slavering, is she lame?”

  “Nay, nay, she just has these nasty blisters. Seem to have fluid in them.”

  I was breathless as I put down the receiver. One nasty blister would be enough. It sometimes started like that in cows. I almost ran out to my car and on the journey my mind be