weakling of the litter, had been unable to secure a place at the banquet. Squealing shrilly, he ran backwards and forwards, trying to push in among his stronger brothers or even to climb over their tight little black backs towards the maternal reservoir.
âThere
are
fourteen,â said Mary. âYouâre quite right. I counted. Itâs extraordinary.â
âThe sow next door,â Mr Wimbush went on, âhas done very badly. She only had five in her litter. I shall give her another chance. If she does no better next time, I shall fat her up and kill her. Thereâs the boar,â he pointed towards a farther sty. âFine old beast, isnât he? But heâs getting past his prime. Heâll have to go too.â
âHow cruel!â Anne exclaimed.
âBut how practical, how eminently realistic!â said Mr Scogan. âIn this farm we have a model of sound paternal government. Make them breed, make them work, and when theyâre past working or breeding or begetting, slaughter them.â
âFarming seems to be mostly indecency and cruelty,â said Anne.
With the ferrule of his walking-stick Denis began to scratch the boarâs long bristly back. The animal moved a little so as to bring himself within easier range of the instrument that evoked in him such delicious sensations; then he stood stock still, softly grunting his contentment. The mud of years flaked off his sides in a grey powdery scurf.
âWhat a pleasure it is,â said Denis, âto do somebody a kindness. I believe I enjoy scratching this pig quite as much as he enjoys being scratched. If only one could always be kind with so little expense of trouble. . . .â
A gate slammed; there was a sound of heavy footsteps.
âMorning, Rowley!â said Henry Wimbush.
âMorning, sir,â old Rowley answered. He was the most venerable of the labourers on the farm â a tall, solid man, still unbent, with grey side-whiskers and a steep, dignified profile. Grave, weighty in his manner, splendidly respectable, Rowley had the air of a great English statesman of the mid-nineteenth century. He halted on the outskirts of the group, and for a moment they all looked at the pigs in a silence that was only broken by the sound of grunting or the squelch of a sharp hoof in the mire. Rowley turned at last, slowly and ponderously and nobly, as he did everything, and addressed himself to Henry Wimbush.
âLook at them, sir,â he said, with a motion of his hand towards the wallowing swine. âRightly is they called pigs.â
âRightly indeed,â Mr Wimbush agreed.
âI am abashed by that man,â said Mr Scogan, as old Rowley plodded off slowly and with dignity. âWhat wisdom, what judgment, what a sense of values! âRightly are they called swine.â Yes. And I wish I could, with as much justice, say, âRightly are we called men.ââ
They walked on towards the cowsheds and the stables of the cart-horses. Five white geese, taking the air this fine morning, even as they were doing, met them in the way. They hesitated, cackled; then, converting their lifted necks into rigid, horizontal snakes, they rushed off in disorder, hissing horribly as they went. Red calves paddled in the dung and mud of a spacious yard. In another enclosure stood the bull, massive as a locomotive. He was a very calm bull, and his face wore an expression of melancholy stupidity. He gazed with reddish-brown eyes at his visitors, chewed thoughtfullyat the tangible memories of an earlier meal, swallowed and regurgitated, chewed again. His tail lashed savagely from side to side; it seemed to have nothing to do with his impassive bulk. Between his short horns was a triangle of red curls, short and dense.
âSplendid animal,â said Henry Wimbush. âPedigree stock. But heâs getting a little old, like the boar.â
âFat him up and slaughter him,â Mr Scogan pronounced,