Every spring Mr. Jerrold held a sale of his surplus cattle, and those interested in Holstein breeding came long distances to be present. It was the principal event of the year in the neighbourhood of Brancepeth and Mistwell. Waggonettes, dogcarts, and motors were sent to meet the morning trains, and a substantial lunch was set out in Hobbs's house for those who had made long journeys. There was also a steady stream of farmers' vehicles up to the time of the sale, and for two days after it there was the business of driving or carting away the purchased stock.
The morning broke cloudy and cold. Jagged lines of foam curled across a steel grey lake. Farmers driving by had their collars turned up to their ears. Jock, the collie, raced up and down the road barking ceaselessly. Derek decided to take Windmill with him for company. He would have liked to give the four men a half holiday that they might all go, but he was afraid of Mrs. Machin. There was no doubt about it, he was afraid of her.
There she stood on the flagstones outside the kitchen door, the wind blowing her apron in snowy folds about her stiff black person, her lips twisted in a smile of contempt for the hurrying passersby.
"Fools," she said. "Tumblin' over themselves to pay fancy prices fur cows that's no better than any other cows only they're fed up till their bags is fit to bust. You stop crammin' the high-priced feed down 'em and they soon stop
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