He pressed his forehead against Miss Bessie’s warm hide. He wondered idly if cows were ever scared—really scared. He had seen Miss Bessie jitter away from P. T., but that was different. A yapping puppy at your heels is an immediate threat, but the difference between him and Miss Bessie was that when there was no P. T. in sight she was perfectly content, sleepily chewing her cud. She wasn’t staring down at the old Perkins place, wondering and worrying. She wasn’t standing there on her tippytoes while anxiety ate holes through all her stomachs.
