In sympathy with current conversation, he said a word for the railways: they would certainly make the flesh of swine cheaper, bring a heap of hams into the market.

But Andrew Hedger remarked with contempt that he had not much opinion of foreign hams: nobody, knew what they fed on.

Hog, he said, would feed on anything, where there was no choice they had wonderful stomachs for food.

Only, when they had a choice, they left the worst for last, and home-fed filled them with stuff to make good meat and fat 'what we calls prime bacon.' As it is not right to damp a native enthusiasm, Redworth let him dilate on his theme, and mused on his boast to eat hog a solid hour, which roused some distant classic recollection:--an odd jumble.
They crossed the wooden bridge of a flooded stream.
'Now ye have it,' said the hog-worshipper; 'that may be the house, I reckon.' A dark mass of building, with the moon behind it, shining in spires through a mound of firs, met Redworth's gaze.

The windows all were blind, no smoke rose from the chimneys.