Tinker shrugged his shoulders, spread
out his hands, gestures he had acquired in France, and hurried off on
his main errand.
He came swiftly to a small field in which there browsed a large and
solitary ram, by name Billy, Tinker's playfellow in the game of
bull-fighting. With a somewhat unfair casting of the star part, Tinker
always played the matador, Billy played the bull.
Drawing a stout wooden sword, the handiwork of Sir Tancred, who never
dreamed of the purpose it served, from its hiding-place in the hedge,
Tinker slipped over the gate. Billy greeted his playfellow with an
ill-conditioned grunt expressive of no joy at all. Tinker saluted,
walked up to within ten yards, and waved his hat at him. Billy watched
him with a wicked eye, affected to graze, and of a sudden charged with
all his speed. Tinker sprang aside as the ram's head went down to
butt, and as he hurtled past, prodded him with the sword behind the
shoulder.
Billy pulled himself up as soon as he could check his momentum, and
turned and stood blinking. Twice he rapped the ground hard with his
forefoot. Tinker again drew to within ten yards of him; again Billy
charged; and again he was prodded behind the shoulder. It was a
beautiful game, and Tinker's lightness of foot, quickness of eye, and
coolness of head did every credit to the education he had received from
his father.
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