He had another long talk with Martin Hinde, who had a pedigree shorthorn herd at Withergill. Kit had muddled his stock as he had muddled everything else, but he loved the romance of a big shorthorn success. He had loved the stock, too, when it stayed in his mind, and could stand entranced round a cattle-ring as long as most. It seemed to him, after a while, that he got down into the road, and argued with Martin about a cow just over the fence, while the cow cropped on stolidly without ever raising her head. They talked of Royals and Royal Lancashires and of local winners at the great shows; of breeders and auctioneers, and great sires whose pedigrees they knew better than their own. They commented on the passing of the ancient hour-glass at sales, and began to grow heated and loud-voiced over dual purpose and Scotch blood. They even fought the old Booth and Bates battle over again, roaring and waving sticks and dragging in _Bracelets_ and _Duchesses_ by the hair. Kit fancied that he could see the shadowy majesties of the herd, looming along the road at Martin’s back. Even as shadows they gave an impression of weight, of solid strength in their huge bodies and great, scornful heads, that would have been noble but for the sullen, brooding eyes. But all that Bob saw was empty marsh and sand, and an old man sitting vacantly in a trap, with the last of a buttered scone in his still hand. They overtook Mrs. Holliday as they went, trudging home with a basket on her arm. Kit suggested that they should stop and pick her up, and Bob checked and looked round, and said stolidly that he didn’t rightly know what his father meant. Kit, however, gave Mrs. Holliday a wink, and pointed slyly to the empty seat; and he was sure he felt her weight when the trap moved on, though he was careful not to speak or look behind....