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getting something in return.”
    He talked on enthusiastically of his plans for the future, the drinks kept coming and the atmosphere in the pub thawed steadily. The place filled up as the regulars from the village streamed in, the noise and heat increased and by near closing time I had got separated from my colleague and was in the middle of a laughing group I seemed to have known for years.
    But there was one odd character who swam repeatedly into my field of vision. An elderly little man with a soiled white panama perched above a smooth, brown, time-worn face like an old boot. He was dodging round the edge of the group, beckoning and winking.
    I could see there was something on his mind, so I broke away and allowed myself to be led to a seat in the corner. The old man sat opposite me, rested his hands and chin on the handle of his walking stick and regarded me from under drooping eyelids.
    “Now then, young man, ah’ve summat to tell thee. Ah’ve been among beasts all me life and I’m going to tell tha summat.”
    My toes began to curl. I had been caught this way before. Early in my college career I had discovered that all the older inhabitants of the agricultural world seemed to have the idea that they had something priceless to impart. And it usually took a long time. I looked around me in alarm but I was trapped. The old man shuffled his chair closer and began to talk in a conspiratorial whisper. Gusts of beery breath hit my face from six inches range.
    There was nothing new about the old man’s tale—just the usual recital of miraculous cures he had wrought, infallible remedies known only to himself and many little sidetracks about how unscrupulous people had tried in vain to worm his secrets from him. He paused only to take expert pulls at his pint pot; his tiny frame seemed to be able to accommodate a surprising amount of beer.
    But he was enjoying himself and I let him ramble on. In fact I encouraged him by expressing amazement and admiration at his feats.
    The little man had never had such an audience. He was a retired smallholder and it had been years since anybody had shown him the appreciation he deserved. His face wore a lopsided leer and his swimmy eyes were alight with friendship. But suddenly he became serious and sat up straight.
    “Now, afore ye go, young man, I’m going to tell thee summat nobody knows but me. Ah could’ve made a lot o’ money out o’ this. Folks ’ave been after me for years to tell ’em but I never ’ave.”
    He lowered the level in his glass by several inches then narrowed his eyes to slits. “It’s the cure for mallenders and sallenders in ’osses.”
    I started up in my chair as though the roof had begun to fall in. “You can’t mean it,” I gasped. “Not mallenders and sallenders.”
    The old man looked smug. “Ah, but ah do mean it. All you have to do is rub on this salve of mine and the ’oss walks away sound. He’s better by that!” His voice rose to a thin shout and he made a violent gesture with his arm which swept his nearly empty glass to the floor.
    I gave a low, incredulous whistle and ordered another pint. “And you’re really going to tell me the name of this salve?” I whispered.
    “I am, young man, but only on one condition. Tha must tell no one. Tha must keep it to thaself, then nobody’ll know but thee and me.” He effortlessly tipped half of his fresh pint down his throat. “Just thee and me, lad.”
    “All right, I promise you. I’ll not tell a soul. Now what is this wonderful stuff?”
    The old man looked furtively round the crowded room. Then he took a deep breath, laid his hand on my shoulder and put his lips close to my ear. He hiccuped once, solemnly, and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Marshmallow ointment.”
    I grasped his hand and wrung it silently. The old man, deeply moved, spilled most of his final half pint down his chin.
    But Farnon was making signals from the door. It was time to go. We surged out with our new friends,