"I'll tell you what I'd do," he said, at last, pointing northward impressively with his long knife. "I'd go up there on the clay where the pastures is dried up and the farmers is feedin' hay at fifteen dollars a ton, and I'd buy a cow for half what she could be bought for down here where the grass is green." That sounded reasonable, and when he proceeded to name some of his customers "on the clay," I stopped him at the name Waydean. "Any relation of Peter's?" I asked, with sudden interest. "His brother," he answered, with an odd smile--"and it's a dead fright how them two men hate each other! I believe Peter'd go clean off his head if you was to buy a cow from John." I smiled with satisfaction. Peter had set his snares in vain in many artful endeavors to sell me some of his belongings; with sunny smiles I had avoided giving him a chance to add to the exorbitant rent that I paid him, and he could scarcely conceal glances of sour disappointment in my presence. That I should buy a cow from anyone else would, I knew, be pain to him; his pain would not be less if I bought her from his brother John. "Well," said the butcher, when I had announced my intention of having a look at John Waydean's cattle, "I pass within half a mile of his place on my round, so I can give you a lift if you like to come along with me. Of course," he added, taking a sidelong survey of me, "John can't skin a man quite so neat as Peter, but he's pretty sharp on a bargain, and you want to keep your weather eye open when you dicker with him. Know much about cattle?" Some people can boast about acquirements they haven't got; I cannot. I merely looked shrewd and modest, nodding slightly to the butcher, simultaneously with a faint movement of one eyelid. Marion, misunderstanding my silence, exclaimed confidently: "Oh, he knows _all_ about that sort of thing. He writes articles for the _Observer_." At this point I disclaimed, with becoming embarrassment, all pretension to unusual lore, but the butcher looked profoundly impressed and delighted. "That's all right!" he said cheerily. "I know his cows is mostly fresh, but he's got one or two strippers." I went into the house to get ready for the trip; Marion followed me. "Henry," she inquired, in a confidential tone, "what _are_ fresh cows,--and strippers?" It was the very problem I was wrestling with. If the butcher had not been waiting, and if Marion hadn't followed me so closely, I would have snatched a moment to consult my books of reference, but I had no time even to collect my thoughts properly. I was in the awkward predicament of the schoolboy who knows he knows the answer to a question, but somehow cannot think of the words. I was in a great hurry, but Marion was so anxious for information that I did my best to enlighten her. "A fresh cow," I said, struggling into my coat in jerks, "is one--in the prime--of life--and--and vigor; a stripper, on the contrary, is merely--a--a middle-aged--juvenile."