There, round the long table, sat half a dozen farmers and half a dozen of the more eminent pigs,
Napoleon himself occupying the seat of honour at the head of the table.
The pigs appeared completely at ease in their chairs. The company had been enjoying a game of cards
but had broken off for the moment, evidently in order to drink a toast.
A large jug was circulating, and the mugs were being refilled with beer.
No one noticed the wondering faces of the animals that gazed in at the window.
Mr. Pilkington, of Foxwood, had stood up, his mug in his hand.
In a moment, he said, he would ask the present company to drink a toast.
But before doing so, there were a few words that he felt it incumbent upon him to say.
It was a source of great satisfaction to him, he said—and, he was sure, to all others present—
to feel that a long period of mistrust and misunderstanding had now come to an end.
There had been a time—not that he, or any of the present company, had shared such sentiments—
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