“Didn’t seem to ’ave strength enough to live another dy withaht it.” “Any stipulation made concerning the price of the cow?” “Any what?” “The young lady with the eyes—did she think to ask the price of the cow?” “No sordid details was entered into, so far as I could ’ear,” replied the boy. They would not have been—by Robina. “Any hint let fall as to what the cow was wanted for?” “The lydy gives us to understand,” said the boy, “that fresh milk was ’er idea.” That surprised me: that was thoughtful of Robina. “And this is the cow?” “I towed her rahnd last night. I didn’t knock at the door and tell yer abaht ’er, cos, to be quite frank with yer, there wasn’t anybody in.” “What is she bellowing for?” I asked. “Well,” said the boy, “it’s only a theory, o’ course, but I should sy, from the look of ’er, that she wanted to be milked.” “But it started bellowing at half-past two,” I argued. “It doesn’t expect to be milked at half-past two, does it?” “Meself,” said the boy, “I’ve given up looking for sense in cows.” In some unaccountable way this boy was hypnotising me. Everything had suddenly become out of place. The cow had suddenly become absurd: she ought to have been a milk-can. The wood struck me as neglected: there ought to have been notice-boards about, “Keep off the Grass,” “Smoking Strictly Prohibited”: there wasn’t a seat to be seen. The cottage had surely got itself there by accident: where was the street? The birds were all out of their cages; everything was upside down. “Are you a real farmer’s boy?” I asked him. “O’ course I am,” he answered. “What do yer tike me for—a hartist in disguise?” It came to me. “What is your name?” “’Enery—’Enery ’Opkins.” “Where were you born?” “Camden Tahn.” Here was a nice beginning to a rural life! What place could be the country while this boy Hopkins was about? He would have given to the Garden of Eden the atmosphere of an outlying suburb. “Do you want to earn an occasional shilling?” I put it to him. “I’d rather it come reggler,” said Hopkins. “Better for me kerrickter.” “You drop that Cockney accent and learn Berkshire, and I’ll give you half a sovereign when you can talk it,” I promised him. “Don’t, for instance, say ‘ain’t,’” I explained to him. “Say ‘bain’t.’ Don’t say ‘The young lydy, she came rahnd to our plice;’ say ‘The missy, ’er coomed down; ’er coomed, and ’er ses to the maister, ’er ses . . . ’ That’s the sort of thing I want to surround myself with here. When you informed me that the cow was mine, you should have said: ‘Whoi, ’er be your cow, surelie ’er be.’” “Sure it’s Berkshire?” demanded Hopkins. “You’re confident about it?” There is a type that is by nature suspicious. “It may not be Berkshire pure and undefiled,” I admitted. “It is what in literature we term ‘dialect.’ It does for most places outside the twelve-mile radius. The object is to convey a feeling of rustic simplicity. Anyhow, it isn’t Camden Town.”