"Bring out a chair," he shouted, "bring out a basin. Tell them to come to me. It's bleedin' she wants." He took from his carpet-bag a brass handled fleam, opened a blade and tried its edge with his thumb. "Hurry, hurry," he shouted, dancing towards the Master. "Man alive, stir yourself... Is it have me lose the baste ye would? Bring a basin quick, I tell ye... Look at her. Don't let her down—for God's sake, don't let her down," shouted the man and, even as Spotty doubled her knees and sank moaning in the straw, rushed over and began pulling at her tail. "She mustn't lie," he shouted; "she mustn't lie. Gar up." He kicked brutally at her buttocks. "Gar up—gar up, ye divil!" Then the Master crossed, took him by the shoulders and sent him spinning against the wall. "Get back, you brute!" The Master was hoarse with anger, his eyes flashed red murder. "Get out o' my sight," he shouted, "you ignorant brute! You a cattle doctor—you a Christian! Get out, I say; get out o' my sight. Here, take your trumpery." Out went the carpet-bag, the coat, the fleam, into the yard; out came the Master raging and flaring. "You'd murder my beast—you'd kick her to death—you'd torture the life out of her! I'm sick of the sight of you. Get out; get out!"