“Well,” he said, in his snarling beast voice, “wot's up 'ere, with all these folk brought their beasts 'ere?”
I told him that the Duke had come co fight for the crown of England, with the result, as I supposed, that the country people dared not trust their live-stock at home, for fear of having them pillaged. He seemed pleased at the news; but being an utter wild beast, far less civilized than the lowest savage ever known to me, he showed his pleasure by hoping that the rich (whom he cursed fluently) might have their heads pulled off in the war, while as for the poor (the farmers close by us) he hoped that they might lose every beast they owned. “Do 'era good,” he said. “Now,” he went on, “are you come spying 'ere along of the farmers?”
“No,” I said, “I am a servant of the Duke's, riding out to look for the militia.”
“Ah,” he said. “Are yer, cocky? 'Ow'm I to know that?”
“Well,” I said, “Look at my hands. Are they the hands of a farmer?”
“No,” he said. “No, Mister stuck-up flunkey, they ain't. I s'pose yet proud of yet 'ands. I'll 'ave yer wait at table on me.” He seemed to like the notion: for he repeated it many times, while he dug out hunks of cold ham with his file, from the meat which I had felt as I crawled in
“'Ow proud I dig
A'unk a cold pig”
he sang, as he gulped the pieces down. It was partly a nightmare, partly very funny. I was not sure if he was mad, probably he was mad, but being down in the burrow there, in the half darkness, hearing that song, made me feel that I was mad; it was all a very terrible joke; perhaps madness affects people like that. At last I spoke to him again.
“Sir,” I said, “I've been up since two this morning. Give me a hunk of cold pig, too. I'm half-starved.”
“'Elp yourself, can't yer?” he snarled. “Oo'm I to wait on yer?” Then, very cunningly, he put in, “'Ave you got a knife on yer?”