Crispin Mutsu and J.W. Constable had had a conversation and engaged to meet yesterday. They set the wall between them and walked the line as if they were pacing out a duel, but it was collaborative rather than combative.
The steers had preferred the forbidden fruit on Cox’s Farm to the boring monotony of endless grass on the common meadow down by the riverside. They’d lunged and thrust, and by their insistence finally made a gap that two of them could pass through abreast.
Hopefully that would do it for this year – it wouldn’t be long before the cattle were coming in for the winter anyway.