Jammery kept his glass full and it was the excitement of the play he craved. He played wildly, his cheeks flushed by drink, and his fair face contrasting strangely with the bronze countenances about him.
Snailem had cleaned out the apple-house that day, and thrown a few bushels of withered apples from last year's crop into a corner of the orchard for the pigs. They had been up finishing these by moonlight and now, attracted by the light of the lantern, they came running and stamping through the trees to the very feet of the gamblers. They crowded closely around them, snuffling and snorting, their coarse pink snouts wet with apple juice turned up towards the men's faces. A big Yorkshire sow peered quizzically up at Derek, chewing something with relish, in short quick smacks. He stared at her in surprise.
"Damned if I ever saw such intelligent fache, as fache on thish sow," he said. "Look at her, Jammery."
Enoch and Isaac began to drive the pigs away with kicks, and blows with a stick.
"I liked thish—I'll come again," said Derek, as he got up to go.
"I'll walk through the orchard with you," Jammery said, gently taking his arm.
"No; don't wannany help. Leggo my arm."
He shook himself free and marched steadily down the orchard path, the pigs darting here and there, out of his way. He was in good spirits, and broke into a song that he and two Halifax friends had often sung as a trio:
"A little farm well tilled,
A little barn well filled,
A little wife well willed—
Give me, give me."
His good baritone voice, rich with emotion, echoed against the grey walls of Grimstone. . . . He was looking
