The bull was rushing frantically about, bellowing and snorting and looking in vain for him, and at last, turning his attention to the marquee, he dashed into it, ripping up the canvas and over-turning the table, smashing the dishes, and altogether making a most terrific commotion.

Now that we were all safe we could make light of the loss of the marquee and its contents, and could even smile at the quaint remark of Lady Betty when she said solemnly—­

“In future I shall prefer to picnic where there are spiders, instead of where mad bulls are about.  In fact, I shall rather like spiders after this:  they’re so gentle and don’t bellow at all.”

The boys were still watching the havoc which the bull was creating, when they noticed a man walking towards us beside the fence.

He was a big, burly farmer and looked very angry.

“Now then,” he cried, in a surly voice, “what do you mean by all this?”

“I don’t understand you,” I answered.

“I speak plain English, don’t I?” he said.  “Wasn’t it you that’s been trampling in my long grass, and building tents and what not on private property?  I’ll learn you that I won’t have no strangers in my meadows, I can tell ye.”

“I’m very sorry if I’ve done any harm,” said I, “and I’m sure if—­”

“If you’ve done any harm!” shouted the farmer.  “Look at all that long grass trampled down all over the meadow.”

“Yes,” I interrupted, “but it was your bull which did that.”

“He wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t teased him,” said the farmer obstinately.  “I saw one of you myself teasing him with a red rag and making him furious.  I’m not going to have any of it.  Off you come with me to the police station.”

“No, no, I can’t do that,” I cried in alarm; “I have these children with me.”

“People shouldn’t take children out if they can’t do without getting into mischief,” grumbled the farmer.  “No, you come along of me,” and he caught hold of my arm.

“I’ll give you my card,” I said, “and if you have any serious complaint to make you can write to me.”

“Aye, a likely story; and when I write to you, as likely as not I’ll find you’ve given me a wrong address.”

“Come back with me then to the inn:  they know me there and will tell you whether or no the address is a correct one.”

The old farmer was gradually persuaded to this course, though he grumbled all the way there that I ought to be “locked up,” while the children, thoroughly subdued, walked in silence behind us.

“You’ll have to pay a pretty penny for damages,” said he warningly, when he had satisfied himself at the inn that I was known as “a gentleman who often drove over there in the summer, and always paid for what he had.”

I assured him that he should have what was just, and when he had gone I ordered tea in the arbour at the end of the old-fashioned garden, and over it we forgot the unfortunate, but exciting, termination to our picnic.