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making a little island of noise and light in the quiet village street. A tow-haired young fellow in shirt sleeves opened the car door with natural courtesy and, waving a final good night, I plunged in. This time, the seat went over quicker than usual and I hurtled backwards, coming to rest with my head among some Wellingtons and my knees tucked underneath my chin.
    A row of surprised faces peered in at me through the back window, but soon, willing hands were helping me up and the trick seat was placed upright on its rockers again. I wondered how long it had been like that and if my employer had ever thought of having it fixed.
    We roared off into the darkness and I looked back at the waving group. I could see the little man, his panama gleaming like new in the light from the doorway. He was holding his finger to his lips.

FIVE
    T HE PAST FIVE YEARS had been leading up to one moment and it hadn’t arrived yet. I had been in Darrowby for twenty-four hours now and I still hadn’t been to a visit on my own.
    Another day had passed in going around with Farnon. It was a funny thing, but, for a man who seemed careless, forgetful and a few other things, Farnon was frustratingly cautious about launching his new assistant.
    We had been over into Lidderdale today and I had met more of the clients—friendly, polite farmers who received me pleasantly and wished me success. But working under Farnon’s supervision was like being back at college with the professor’s eye on me. I felt strongly that my professional career would not start until I, James Herriot, went out and attended a sick animal, unaided and unobserved.
    However, the time couldn’t be very far away now. Farnon had gone off to Brawton to see his mother again. A devoted son, I thought wonderingly. And he had said he would be back late, so the old lady must keep unusual hours. But never mind about that—what mattered was that I was in charge.
    I sat in an armchair with a frayed loose cover and looked out through the french window at the shadows thrown by the evening sun across the shaggy lawn. I had the feeling that I would be doing a lot of this.
    I wondered idly what my first call would be. Probably an anticlimax after the years of waiting. Something like a coughing calf or a pig with constipation. And maybe that would be no bad thing—to start with something I could easily put right. I was in the middle of these comfortable musings when the telephone exploded out in the passage. The insistent clamour sounded abnormally loud in the empty house. I lifted the receiver.
    “Is that Mr. Farnon?” It was a deep voice with a harsh edge to it. Not a local accent; possibly a trace of the South West.
    “No, I’m sorry, he’s out. This is his assistant.”
    “When will he be back?”
    “Not till late, I’m afraid. Can I do anything for you?”
    “I don’t know whether you can do anything for me or not.” The voice took on a hectoring tone. “I am Mr. Soames, Lord Hulton’s farm manager. I have a valuable hunting horse with colic. Do you know anything about colic?”
    I felt my hackles rising. “I am a veterinary surgeon, so I think I should know something about it.”
    There was a long pause, and the voice barked again. “Well, I reckon you’ll have to do. In any case, I know the injection the horse wants. Bring some arecoline with you. Mr. Farnon uses it. And for God’s sake, don’t be all night getting here. How long will you be?”
    “I’m leaving now.”
    “Right.”
    I heard the receiver bang down on to its rest. My face felt hot as I walked away from the phone. So my first case wasn’t going to be a formality. Colics were tricky things and I had an aggressive know-all called Soames thrown in for good measure.
    On the eight-mile journey to the case, I re-read from memory that great classic, Caulton Reeks’ Common Colics of the Horse. I had gone through it so often in my final year that I could recite stretches of it like poetry. The well-thumbed pages