I seized my hat and hurried away. As we drove out of the yard I noticed that Marion was standing in the kitchen doorway gazing after me with the expression of one who is prevented from seeing the bottom of a pool by the reflections on its surface. I waved her a gay farewell and hoped for the best. I had a dim idea that I could find out indirectly during the drive what the butcher thought these terms meant, but I needed all my mental agility to make a creditable appearance of understanding his voluble allusions to grades, stockers, springers, shorthorns, yearlings, heifers, and numerous other varieties of cattle. My answers were brief and guarded, and when I tottered I was so swift to recover my balance that my errors were not apparent to my companion. On such occasions I may sometimes be suspected of not being familiar with a subject, but I would defy anyone to prove my ignorance. If Marion's reputation for veracity had not been at stake I might have been willing to act the part of a humble tyro asking for information, but since she had plainly said that I knew all about cattle it was my duty to try to make her statement appear credible. I descended from the wagon feeling that I was utterly incapable of choosing a cow, but I concealed my fears under a mask of calm assurance as I bade the butcher good-by. "Mr. Carton," he said, in parting, "if you was a greenhorn that didn't know the difference between a stocker and a springer, like most city men, I'd say to buy your cow off of some other man than John Waydean, but he'll know better than to try to palm off scrub-stock onto you."