Jude the Obsure

"Make un stop that!" said Arabella. "Such a noise will bring

somebody or other up here, and I don't want people to know we are

doing it ourselves." Picking up the knife from the ground whereon

Jude had flung it, she slipped it into the gash, and slit the

windpipe. The pig was instantly silent, his dying breath coming

through the hole.

"That's better," she said.

"It is a hateful business!" said he.

"Pigs must be killed."

The animal heaved in a final convulsion, and, despite the rope,

kicked out with all his last strength. A tablespoonful of black

clot came forth, the trickling of red blood having ceased for some

seconds.

"That's it; now he'll go," said she. "Artful creatures--they always

keep back a drop like that as long as they can!"

The last plunge had come so unexpectedly as to make Jude stagger, and

in recovering himself he kicked over the vessel in which the blood

had been caught.

"There!" she cried, thoroughly in a passion. "Now I can't make any

blackpot. There's a waste, all through you!"

Jude put the pail upright, but only about a third of the whole

steaming liquid was left in it, the main part being splashed over

the snow, and forming a dismal, sordid, ugly spectacle--to those who

saw it as other than an ordinary obtaining of meat. The lips and

nostrils of the animal turned livid, then white, and the muscles of

his limbs relaxed.

"Thank God!" Jude said. "He's dead."

"What's God got to do with such a messy job as a pig-killing, I

should like to know!" she said scornfully. "Poor folks must live."

"I know, I know," said he. "I don't scold you."

Suddenly they became aware of a voice at hand.

"Well done, young married volk! I couldn't have carried it out much

better myself, cuss me if I could!" The voice, which was husky,

came from the garden-gate, and looking up from the scene of slaughter

they saw the burly form of Mr. Challow leaning over the gate,

critically surveying their performance.

"'Tis well for 'ee to stand there and glane!" said Arabella. "Owing

to your being late the meat is blooded and half spoiled! 'Twon't

fetch so much by a shilling a score!"

Challow expressed his contrition. "You should have waited a bit"

he said, shaking his head, "and not have done this--in the delicate

state, too, that you be in at present, ma'am. 'Tis risking yourself

too much."