Greylake of Mallerby

This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1914. Excerpt: ... CHAPTER XII The rain was falling heavily and splashing against the window of Chris Farron's kitchen, and by the light of the oil lamp Greylake was reading aloud the advertisements in The Surilby Record, while Chris looked thoughtfully at the scanty store of salted bacon hanging from iron hooks in the rafters. Greylake was sitting with his elbow on the table, so that the light of the lamp came over his shoulder; and for greater distinctness of utterance he read with a pipe in his mouth, and stopped every few minutes to light it. Babington was sitting near the fire listening to the advertisements, watching Chris Farron a little suspiciously, and now and then feeling his own hair, for Chris declared it would be a charity to cut it, and on esthetic grounds was prepared to hold the man while Greylake used the shears. "For sale; fifty hogs; apply Grive, Mallerby Cut," Martin read aloud, and then laid down the paper for a moment to light his pipe. "What a lot of pigs," he said thoughtfully. Chris Farron roared with laughter, and Babington looked anxiously at them both. "Hogs are sheep," said Chris, with great scorn. "We know better than that," said Martin, looking hard at the painter, and Babington nodded. "Hogs are pigs! It's childish." "What! Argue me down! Hogs are sheep, I tell you." The others shook their heads. "You can't deceive us," said Babington, in such a conceited voice that Chris became greatly enraged. It was no good, the more he asserted that hogs were sheep the more they derided him, although Greylake knew that hogs were not pigs. There was Chris Farron, red in the face with shouting and vexation, confuted when in the right and utterly silenced upon his own hearth, by those whom he had on other occasions deceived easily enough with a simple tale....