The pig rallied for yet a final onslaught. This time she was just able to inject a bristling snout....
Merle liked to feel that she was ‘making friends with the rustics.’ Nevertheless, sitting abreast of the low sea-wall, she looked somewhat astonished at the bearded veteran who slouched to her side; and, pointing to a picturesque abode covered by a round roof of mud, announced fiercely, and without any preamble, that it was to be razed to the ground, after he and his had dwelt therein for close on four hundred years.
“Taaken from me an’ destroyed, next Monday week. Iss. An’ me without a hoam tu put my foot in et.”
“There’s no place like home for putting one’s foot in it,” murmured Peter, in the background, to Stuart.
Merle heeded them not; she was busy sympathizing with the ‘peasant heart of England.’
“Fur why?” demanded the man, brandishing his stick. “Fur nowt. Bit o’ rain pourin’ through roof an’ in our beds. Mud isna slate.”
“No, no, indeed,” cooed Merle. (“Do be quiet, Peter.”)
The veteran swung round, and indicated a timid-looking damsel standing a few yards off: “Yon’s my daughter. Yon’s t’ girl as gets fits.” His tone rang with such pride, that Stuart stepped forward and congratulated him heartily.