All were as perplexed
at the obscure revelation as the guests at Belshazzar's feast,
except the man in the chimney-corner, who quietly said, "Second
verse, stranger," and smoked on.
The singer thoroughly moistened himself from his lips inward, and
went on with the next stanza, as requested:
"My tools are but common ones,
Simple shepherds all,
My tools are no sight to see:
A little hempen string, and a post whereon to swing,
Are implements enough for me."
Shepherd Fennel glanced round. There was no longer any doubt that
the stranger was answering his question rhythmically. The guests
one and all started back with suppressed exclamations. The young
woman engaged to the man of fifty fainted half-way, and would have
proceeded, but, finding him wanting in alacrity for catching her,
she sat down trembling.
"Oh, he's the--" whispered the people in the background, mentioning
the name of an ominous public officer. "He's come to do it. 'T is
to be at Casterbridge gaol to-morrow--the man for sheep-stealing--the
poor clock-maker we heard of, who used to live away at Anglebury and
had no work to do--Timothy Sommers, whose family were a-starving,
and so he went out of Anglebury by the highroad, and took a sheep
in open daylight, defying the farmer and the farmer's wife and the
farmer's man and every man Jack among 'em.
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