From time to time they looked about them with obvious apprehension, as if anticipating that from every point of the compass a bull was preparing to charge down upon them.
They paused at the main-entrance to the farm, allowing Bindle to lead the way.
Half-way towards the house, their nostrils were assailed by a devastating smell; Mr. Hearty held his breath, whilst Mrs. Bindle produced a handkerchief, wiped her lips and then held it to her nose. She had always been given to understand that the only antidote for a bad smell was to spit; but she was too refined to act up to the dictum without the aid of her handkerchief.
"Pigs!" remarked Bindle, raising his head and sniffing with the air of a connoisseur.
"Extremely insanitary," murmured Mr. Hearty. "You did say the—er bull was tied up, Joseph?" he enquired.
"Well, 'e was when I see 'im," said Bindle, "but of course it wouldn't take long for 'im to undo 'imself."
Mr. Hearty glanced about him anxiously.
In front of the house the party paused. Nowhere was anyone to be seen. An old cart with its shafts pointing heavenward stood on the borders of a duck pond, green with slime.
The place was muddy and unclean, and Mrs. Bindle, with a look of disgust, drew up her skirts almost to the tops of her elastic-sided boots.
Bindle looked about him with interest. A hen appeared round the corner of the house, gazed at the newcomers for a few seconds, her head on one side, then disappeared from whence she had come.