bull, and his face wore an expression of melancholy stupidity. He gazed with reddish-brown eyes at his visitors, chewed thoughtfully at the tangible memories of an earlier meal, swallowed and regurgitated, chewed again. His tail lashed savagely from side to side ; it seemed to have nothing to do with his impassive bulk. Between his short horns was a triangle of red curls, short and dense.
"Splendid animal," said Henry Wimbush. "Pedigree stock. But he's getting a little old, like the boar."
"Fat him up and slaughter him," Mr. Scogan pronounced, with a delicate old-maidish precision of utterance.
"Couldn't you give the animals a little holiday from producing children?" asked Anne. "I'm so sorry for the poor things."
Mr. Wimbush shook his head. "Personally," he said, "I rather like seeing fourteen pigs grow where only one grew before. The spectacle of so much crude life is refreshing."
"I'm glad to hear you say so," Gombauld broke in warmly. "Lots of life: that's what we want. I like pullulation; everything ought to increase and multiply as hard as it can."
