The town itself was in his hands, so that it would institute no suit on Benedict's behalf, now that he had come upon it for support; for the Tom Buffum to whom Miss Butterworth had alluded was the keeper of the poor-house, and was one of his own creatures.
Miss Butterworth had sufficient sagacity to comprehend the reasons for Mr.Belcher's change of look and manner, and saw that her evening's mission would prove fruitless; but her true woman's heart would not permit her to relinquish her project.
"Is poor Benedict comfortable ?" he inquired, in his old, off-hand way.
"Comfortable--yes, in the way that pigs are." "Pigs are very comfortable, I believe, as a general thing," said Mr.
Belcher.
"Bob Belcher," said Miss Butterworth, the tears springing to her eyes in spite of herself, and forgetting all the proprieties she had determined to observe, "you are a brute.

You know you are a brute.

He is in a little cell, no larger than--than--a pig-pen.

There isn't a bit of furniture in it.

He sleeps on the straw, and in the straw, and under the straw, and his victuals are poked at him as if he were a beast.