Job made an indescribable sound, between a snort and a groan, and slowly walked away. Abel, however, continued to stare darkly at his mistress, without changing his position.
As Rosalie, now thoroughly incensed, was about to pour out upon him the vials of her wrath, she suddenly perceived—the fact being unmistakably impressed upon her—that the pigsties near which she stood were in a most disgraceful condition.
‘Abel,’ she said, ‘when were these sties cleaned out? Not, I am sure, on Saturday.’
‘I were—mortal busy o’ Saturday,’ returned Abel in sepulchral tones.
‘Why were you more busy last Saturday than on any other Saturday?’
Abel shuffled from one foot to the other, and repeated sulkily that he had been mortal busy.
‘You must clean them as soon as ever you have fed the pigs,’ said Rosalie sharply. ‘’t is enough to bring fever to the place to have them in this state.’
‘Pigs is n’t p’ison,’ responded Abel roughly.
‘Do not attempt to answer me back like that,’ she cried. ‘It must be very bad for the poor animals themselves. Get to work without a moment’s delay.’
‘Saturday is the day,’ growled the man. ‘I’m—blowed if I clean ’em out afore Saturday!’