Gregory, as he often did, stayed to eat lunch at the farm, but he saw nothing of the farmer till milking time.

Joseph Grendon was in his late forties, and a few years older than his wife. He bad a gaunt solemn face and a heavy beard that made him look older than he was. For all his seriousness, he greeted Gregory civilly enough. They stood together in the gathering dusk as the cows swung behind them into their regular stalls. Together they walked into the machine house next door, and Grendon lit the oil burners that started the steam engine into motion that would turn the generator that would supply the vital spark.

“I smell the future in here,” Gregory said, smiling. By now, he had forgotten the shock of the morning.

“The future will have to get on without me. I shall be dead by then.” The farmer spoke as he walked, putting each word reliably before the next.

“That is what you always say. You're wrongthe future is rushing upon us.”

“You ent far wrong there. Master Gregory, but I won't have no part of it, I reckon. I'm an old man now. Here she come!”

The last exclamation was directed at a flicker of light in the pilot bulb overhead. They stood there contemplating with satisfaction the wonderful machinery. As steam pressure rose, the great leather belt turned faster and faster, and the flicker in the pilot bulb grew stronger. Although Gregory was used to a home lit by both gas and electricity, he never felt the excitement of it as he did here, out in the wilds, where the nearest incandescent bulb was probably in Norwich, a great part of a day's journey away.

Now a pale flickering radiance illuminated the room. By contrast, everything outside looked black. Grendon nodded in satisfaction, made some adjustments to the burners, and they went outside.

Free from the bustle of the steam engine, they could hear the noise the cows were making. At milking time, the animals were usually quiet; something had upset them. The farmer ran quickly into the milking shed, with Gregory on his heels;

The new light, radiating from a bulb hanging above the stalls, showed the beasts of restless demeanor and rolling eye. Bert Neckland stood as far away from the door as possible, grasping his stick and letting his mouth hang open.

“What in blazes are you staring at, bor?” Grendon asked.

Neckland slowly shut his mouth.

“We had a scare,” he said. “Something come in here.”

“Did you see what it was?” Gregory asked.

“No, there weren't nothing to see. It was a ghost, that's what it was. It came right in here and touched the cows. It touched me too. It was a ghost.”

The farmer snorted. “A tramp more like. You couldn't see because the light wasn't on.”

His man shook his head emphatically. “Light weren't that bad. I tell you, whatever it was, it come right up to me and touched me.” He stopped, and pointed to the edge of the stall. “Look there! See, I weren't telling you no lie, master. It was a ghost, and there's its wet hand-print.”

They crowded round and examined the worn and chewed timber at the corner of the partition between two stalls. An indefinite patch of moisture darkened the wood. Gregory's thoughts went back to his experience on the pond, and again he felt the prickle of unease along his spine. But the farmer said stoutly, “Nonsense, it's a bit of cowslime. Now you get on with the milking, Bert, and let's have no more hossing about, because I want my tea. Where's Cuff?”

Bert looked defiant.

“If you don't believe me, maybe you'll believe the bitch. She saw whatever it was and went for it. It kicked her over, but she ran it out of here.”

“I'll see if I can see her,” Gregory said.

He ran outside and began calling the bitch. By now it was almost entirely dark. He could see nothing moving in the wide space of the front yard, and so set off in the other direction, down the path towards the pig sties and the fields, calling Cuff as he went. He paused. Low and savage growls sounded ahead, under the elm trees. It was Cuff. He went slowly forward. At this moment, he cursed that electric light meant lack of lanterns, and wished too that he had a weapon.

“Who's there?” he called. The farmer came up by his side. “Let's charge 'em!”

They ran forward. The trunks of the four great elms were clear against the western sky, with water glinting leadenly be– hind them. The dog became visible. As Gregory saw Cuff, she sailed into the air, whirled round, and flew at the farmer. He flung up his arms and warded off the body. At the same time, Gregory felt a rush of air as if someone unseen had run past him, and a stale muddy smell filled his nostrils. Staggering, he looked behind him. The wan light from the cowsheds spread across the path between the outhouses and the farmhouse. Beyond the light, more distantly, was the silent countryside behind the grain store. Nothing untoward could be seen.

“They killed my old Cuff,” said the farmer.

Gregory knelt down beside him to look at the bitch. There was no mark of injury on her, but she was dead, her fine head lying limp.

“She knew there was something there,” Gregory said. “She went to attack whatever it was and it got her first. What was it? Whatever in the world was it?”

“They killed my old Cuff,” said the farmer again, unhearing. He picked the body up in his arms, turned, and carried it towards the house. Gregory stood where he was, mind and heart equally uneasy.

He jumped violently when a step sounded nearby. It was Bert Neckland.

“What, did that there ghost kill the old bitch?” he asked.

“It killed the bitch certainly, but it was something more terrible than a ghost.”

“That's one of them ghosts, bor. I seen plenty in my time. I ent afraid of ghosts, are you?”

“You looked fairly sick in the cowshed a minute ago.”

The farmhand put his fists on his hips. He was no more than a couple of years older than Gregory, a stocky young man with a spotty complexion and a snub nose that gave him at once an air of comedy and menace. “Is that so, Master Gregory? Well, you looks pretty funky standing there now.”

“I am scared. I don't mind admitting it. But only because we have something here a lot nastier than any specter.”

Neckland came a little closer.

“Then if you are so tilooming windy, perhaps you'll be staying away from the farm in the future.” '

“Certainly not.” He tried to edge back into the light, but the laborer got in his way. “If I was you, I, should stay away.” He emphasized his point by digging an elbow into Gregory's coat. “And just remember that Nancy was interested in me long afore you come'along, bor.”

“Oh, that's it, is iti I think Nancy can decide for herself in whom she is interested, don't you?”

“I'm telling you who she's interested in, see? And mind you don't forget, see?” He emphasized the words with another nudge. Gregory pushed his arm away angrily. Neckland shrugged his shoulders and walked off. As he went, he said, “You're going to get worse than ghosts if you keep hanging round here.”

Gregory was shaken. The suppressed violence in the man's voice suggested that he had been harboring malice for some time. Unsuspectingly, Gregory had always gone out of his way to be cordial, had regarded the sullenness as mere slow– wittedness and done his socialist best to overcome the barrier between them. He thought of following Neckland and trying to make it up with him; but that would look too feeble. Instead, he followed the way the farmer had gone with his dead bitch, and made for the house.

Gregory Rolles was too late back to Cottersall that night to meet his friend Fox. The next night, the weather became exceedingly chill and Gabriel Woodcock, the oldest inhabitant, was prophesying snow before the winter was out (a not very venturesome prophecy to be fulfilled within forty-eight hours, thus impressing most of the inhabitants of the village, for they took pleasure in being impressed and exclaiming and saying “Well I never!” to each other). The two friends met in “The Wayfarer,” where the fires were bigger, though the ale was weaker, than in “The Three Poachers” at the other end of the village.