over eyes, and great working of knives and forks; also sounds like men trying not to laugh.
'Why couldn't you play a trick on another man's darg?' said Curry. 'It's no use tellin' me. I can see it all as plain as if I was on the board—all of you runnin' an' shoutin' an' cheerin' an' laughing and all over shearin' and ill-usin' a poor little darg! Why couldn't you play a trick on another man's darg?…It doesn't matter much—I'm nearly done cookin' here now.…Only that I've got a family to think of I wouldn't 'a' stayed so long. I've got to be up at five every morning an' don't get to bed till ten at night, cookin' an' bakin' an' cleanin' for you an' waitin' on you. First one lot in from the wool-wash, an' then one lot in from the shed, an' another lot in, an' at all hours an' times, an' all wantin' their meals kept hot, an' then they ain't satisfied. And now you must go an' play a dirty trick on my darg! Why couldn't you have a lark with some other man's darg?'
Geordie bowed his head and ate as though he had a cud, like a cow, and could chew at leisure. He seemed ashamed, as indeed we all were secretly. Poor old Curry's oft-repeated appeal, 'Why couldn't you play a trick with another man's dog?' seemed to have something pathetic about it. The men didn't notice that it lacked philanthropy and logic, and probably the cook didn't notice it either, else he wouldn't have harped on it. Geordie lowered his face, and just then, as luck or the devil would have it, he caught sight of the dog. Then he exploded.
The cook usually forgot all about it in an hour,
