along. On the way we met Bennett and Darth and Cullen
going back, and they told us what had happened. I came on
anyhow, though it didn’t look like there was much chance
of talking you out of it. Now I’d like to make a bet with you.
Do you ever do any betting?”
“I’m not a gambler.” Pratt chuckled. “I’m not exactly
a confirmed gambler, but I don’t mind an occasional friendly
wager. I won a nice chunk on the 1936 election.”
“Would you care to try a little bet with me? Say $10,000?”
“On what?”
They got interrupted. A voice sounded, “Oh, there you
are,” and Monte McMillan was coming across the terrace.
He sounded a little relieved. He approached Pratt: “They
were fooling around the fence on the other side, and I told
them they might as well go on, and I wasn’t sure where they
got to. Not that I would suspect the Osgood youngsters of
stealing a bull …”
Pratt grunted. “Sit down and have a drink. Bert! Bert!”
He turned to Clyde: “What is it you want to bet about,
my boy?”
Clyde leaned forward at him. “I’ll bet you $10,000 you don’t
barbecue Hickory Caesar Grindon.”
His sister Nancy exclaimed, “Clyde!” Wolfe’s eyes went
half shut. The others made sounds, and even Lily Rowan
showed some interest. McMillan, who had started to sit down,
stopped himself at an angle and held it a second, and then
slowly sank.
Pratt asked quietly, “What’s going to stop me?”
Clyde turned the palms of his hands up. “It’s either a bet
or it isn’t. That’s all.”
“$10,000 even that we don’t barbecue Hickory Caesar
Grindon.”
“Right.”
“Within what time?”
“Say this week.”
“I ought to warn you I’ve consulted a lawyer. There’s
no legal way of stopping it, if I own him, no matter how much
of a champion he is.”
Clyde merely shrugged. The look on his face was one I’ve
often seen in a poker game.
“Well.” Pratt leaned back and got his thumbs in his arm-
pits. “This is mighty interesting. What about it, McMillan?
Can they get that bull out of that pasture in spite of us?”
The stockman muttered, “I don’t know who would be do-
ing it. If there’s any funny business … if we had him in a
barn …”
“I haven’t got a barn.” Pratt eyed Clyde. “One thing. What
do we do, put up now? Checks?”
Clyde flushed. “My check would be rubber. You know
that, damn it. If I lose I’ll pay.”
“You’re proposing a gentleman’s bet? With me?”
“All right, call it that. A gentleman’s bet.”
“By Cod. My boy, I’m flattered. I really am. But I can’t
afford to do much flattering when $10,000 is involved. I’m
afraid I couldn’t bet unless I had some sort of inkling of
where you would get hold of that. amount.”
Clyde got halfway out of his chair, and my feet came
back automatically for a spring, but his sister pulled him back.
She tried to pull him away, too, with urgent remarks about
leaving, but he shook himself loose and even gave her a
shove. He glared at Pratt with his jaw clamped:
“You damn trash, you say that to an Osgood! All right,
I’ll take some of your money, since that’s all there is to you!
If my father phones you to guarantee my side, does that make
it a gentleman’s bet?”
“Then you really do want to bet.”
“I do.”
“$10,000 even on the proposition as these people here
have heard it.”
“I do.”
“All right. If your father guarantees it, it’s a bet.”
Clyde turned and started off without even a glance around
for good-bye. His friend Bronson put down his drink and fol-
lowed him. They had to wait at the edge of the terrace for
Nancy, who, flustered as she was, managed a dam good exit
under the circumstances. As she got away Monte McMillan
stood up and remarked to Pratt:
“I’ve known that Osgood boy since he was a baby. I guess
I’d better go and tell him not to do anything foolish.”
He tramped off after them.
Lily Rowan said hopefully, “It sounds to me as if there’s
going to be dirty work at the crossroads.” She patted the
space beside her which Jimmy Pratt had vacated. “Come and
sit here, Escamillo, and tell me what’s going to happen.”
I lifted the form, strolled gracefully over, deposited it,
acquired her left hand, and studied the palm. “It’s like this,”
I told her. “You will be very happy for a while, then you will
take a long journey under water and will meet a bald-headed
man sitting on some seaweed who you will think is William
Beebe but who- will begin talking to you in Russian. Not understanding
Russian, you will take it for granted that you get
the idea, but will discover to your horror that he was talking
about something else. Give me the other hand to compare.”
Jimmy Pratt, meanwhile, was haranguing his uncle. “…
and you sit there and let him call you trash! I’d have liked to
smack him! I would have smacked him—”
“Now, Jimmy.” Pratt waved a hand. He chuckled. “You
wouldn’t smack an Osgood, would you? Take it easy, son. By
the way, since you seem to be feeling belligerent, maybe you’d
like to help out a little with that bull. I’m afraid we’ll have
to keep an eye on him all night. How about a little sentry
duty?”
“Well, sir …” Jimmy looked uncomfortable. “The fact
is … I’ve already told you … I don’t approve of that. It
seems to me a bull like that … a champion and so on …”
“You wouldn’t like to help us guard him?”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me out of that. Uncle
Tom.”
“All right. I guess we can manage somehow. —What’s your
feeling about it, Mr. Wolfe? Haven’t I got a right to eat my
own bull?”
Wolfe obliged with a philosophical lecture on written and
unwritten law, degrees of moral turpitude, and the extravagant
enthusiasms of bovine genetics. It sounded quite instructive
and elevated the tone of the gathering to a plane high above
such petty things as smacking an Osgood or eating beef-
steak or winning a $10,000 bet. When he had finished, he
turned to me with a suggestion: since he had accepted Mr.
Pratt’s kind invitation to dine there, a change of linen would
be desirable, and the luggage was still in our car out by the
roadside. Jimmy offered his services, but Caroline insisted it
was her job, since it was she who had contracted to drive us
to Crowfield, so I followed her from the terrace, across a wide
lawn, around some shrubbery and flower beds, and down a
path which took us to the graveled space in front of the garage,
where a big sedan was parked near the yellow convertible.
I stooped to peer under the trees to where I had caught a
glimpse of a high long mound of freshly dug soil, with picks
and shovels leaning against it. I had noticed it previously,
as we drove by in the convertible after escaping from the
pasture, but had not then realized its significance.
“Pit for the barbecue?” I inquired.
Caroline nodded. “I think it’s pretty awful, but I couldn’t
very well refuse uncle’s invitation to come up for it. Get in.”
When she had swung the sedan around and had headed
down the drive I said, “I ask this because it’s none of my
business. I’m interested in human nature. Which is it, ad-
vertising, or a Bronx cheer for Father Osgood?”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking about something.”
So I held myself aloof. The sedan emerged onto the high-
way and turned left, and in half a minute was swinging
around the curve which I had seen from the other direction
during my survey of the surroundings after the accident. In
the other half of the minute she had arrived at the scene,
spun the wheel with her strong wrists, done a U, and pulled
up directly behind the relic. I got out. The angle of the low
evening sun made long soft shadows with trees and telephone
poles on the green of the pasture. Across its expanse, on the
other side, I could see the top third of Monte McMillan above
the fence, his face turned our way, and moving along this
side of the boulder, with slow imperial tread, looking bigger
than ever, was the bull. I had to admit he was a beaut, now
that I could take an impersonal view.
There were two suitcases, two bags, the sprayer, and the
crates of plants. After I got them all transferred I locked
the car up again, took another glance at the bull who was
soon to be served at 450 bucks a portion, and climbed in
beside Miss Pratt. Still aloof, I didn’t say anything, but sat