Peacock stood with his hands in his breeches' pockets. An old straw hat
was on his head, his little eyes were turned towards the ground; and
his cob, which he had tied to what his father had left standing of the
fence, had his eyes, too, turned towards the ground, for he was eating
grass. Mr. Pendyce's fight with his burning stable had stuck in the
farmer's "gizzard" ever since. He felt that he was forgetting it day
by day--would soon forget it altogether. He felt the old sacred doubts
inherited from his fathers rising every hour within him. And so he
had come up to see what looking at the gap would do for his sense of
gratitude. At sight of the Squire his little eyes turned here and there,
as a pig's eyes turn when it receives a blow behind. That Mr. Pendyce
should have chosen this moment to come up was as though Providence, that
knoweth all things, knew the natural thing for Mr. Pendyce to do.
"Afternoon, Squire. Dry weather; rain's badly wanted. I'll get no feed
if this goes on."
Mr. Pendyce answered:
"Afternoon, Peacock. Why, your fields are first-rate for grass."
They hastily turned their eyes away, for at that moment they could not
bear to see each other.
There was a silence; then Peacock said:
"What about those gates of mine, Squire?" and his voice quavered, as
though gratitude might yet get the better of him.
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