“Beef stakes and bacon hams
I can eat as lang’s I’m able;
Cutlets, chops, or mutton pies,
Pork’s the king of a’ the table.”
As he sung this he was still examining the edge of his knife, so that he came close to his intended victim, without once observing the change that had taken place.
“Gude e’en t’ye, neighbour,” said Croudy.
The butcher made an involuntary convulsive spring, as if a thunder-bolt had struck him and knocked him away about six yards at one stroke. There he stood and stared at what he now saw lying bound with the ropes and garters, and the dog still standing by. The knife fell out of his hand—his jaws fell down on his breast, and his eyes rolled in their sockets.—“L‑‑d G‑d!” cried the butcher, as loud as he could roar, and ran through the yard, never letting one bellow abide another.
The servants met him, asking what was the matter—“Was he cut? Had he sticked or wounded himself?”
He regarded none of their questions; but dashing them aside, ran on, uttering the same passionate ejaculation with all the power that the extreme of horror could give to such a voice. Gudgel beheld him from a window, and meeting him in the entry to the house, he knocked him down. “I’ll make you stop, you scoundrel,” said he, “and tell me what all this affray means.”
“O L‑‑d, sir! the boar—the boar!” exclaimed the butcher as he raised himself with one arm from the ground, and defended his head with the other.
“The boar, you blockhead!” said Gudgel,—“what of the boar? Is he not like to turn well out?”
“He turns out to be the devil, sir—gang an’ see, gang an see,” said the butcher.