Free Lord God Made Them All by James Herriot Page A

a sago pudding thickly sprinkled with cinnamon and with peaches nestling on its bosom. As I sipped my coffee and nibbled delicious Danish cheese, I felt I might have been eating at the Ritz.
    The cook, Nielsen by name, a large smiling man in a white apron, pushed his head round the door at the end of the meal, and I called out to him that his food was wonderful. He looked intensely gratified but also surprised because the other ship’s officers seem to take it all for granted.
    His smile grew wider, and he nodded his head rapidly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” He stared at me as though he had been looking for me all his life. I have a feeling that I have made a friend there.
    After lunch, back down to t’ween decks and lower hold, to give them their proper names, for another look at the sheep, but on the way I had to stop for a few minutes on the upper deck to take gulping breaths of the unbelievably fresh air that swept over the heaving miles of water. Walking around is difficult because I find it almost impossible to stand upright with the constant movement of the ship.
    Down below I studied the animals carefully. There was something on my mind. Right at the beginning I had heard the odd cough, and I hadn’t paid much attention because all sheep cough occasionally, but since we sailed, it had become more frequent and had a rasping quality that was only too familiar.
    As I walked around I heard it again, and this time I traced it to the affected sheep. I climbed into the pen—all Lincolns—and began to stir them around, and after a few seconds there was a regular chorus of coughs. I knew now; they had husk.
    I took a few temperatures, leaning back against the swaying wall to read the thermometer, but there was clearly no secondary infection; it was a straightforward parasitic bronchitis, and with my pitiful little stock of drugs in the suitcase upstairs there was nothing I could do about it.
    Of course, as I sit here writing in my cabin, I realise it is only a mild attack and since they are off the pasture, in top condition, and with an abundant supply of good food, they will certainly throw it off in time. But for all that, I don’t like it. The vets in Hull didn’t spot it but those in Klaipeda probably will, and I want to present a batch of healthy animals to them.
    Later, I had a most interesting hour with the captain on the bridge. He showed me how the radar and other gadgets worked and pointed out our position on the chart. We are off the coast of Holland but out of sight of land.
    I was intrigued by the mariner’s view of a map. The sea is a complicated mass of lines, words and figures, while the land is a white blank.
    At 6:30 P.M. I began again on what I had thought was to be my frugal living. Mountains of roast chicken with a piquant stuffing I had never tasted before, surrounded by thin layers of cucumber done up with sugar and vinegar. Fruit followed, and, of course, there was the ever-present array of herring in tomato, salami, salt beef, pork, smoked ham, bacon and endless kinds of Danish sliced sausages and cheeses. I haven’t mentioned the two most popular things among the Danes themselves—the liver paste and trays of dripping.
    The ship’s officers seem to love these two items, especially the dripping which they spread on rye bread and eat at the end of the meal.
    After dinner we settled down to a two-hour session of smoking and swopping yarns over the schnapps and beer. I gather that this is a regular custom in the evenings. The seamen are very interesting with their tales of many countries and peoples and the often startling adventures they have had on their travels.

Chapter
8
    “I T WAS H EMINGWAY WHO said that, wasn’t it?”
    Norman Beaumont shook his head. “No, Scott Fitzgerald.”
    I didn’t argue because Norman usually knew. In fact, it was one of the attractive things about him.
    I enjoyed having veterinary students seeing practice with us. They helped with fetching and