unfairly ever since I've worked for'n, seeing I be but a little small
man, I must say that I have never before tasted such rough bread as has
been made from Henchard's wheat lately. 'Tis that growed out that ye
could a'most call it malt, and there's a list at bottom o' the loaf as
thick as the sole of one's shoe."

The band now struck up another melody, and by the time it was ended the
dinner was over, and speeches began to be made. The evening being calm,
and the windows still open, these orations could be distinctly heard.
Henchard's voice arose above the rest; he was telling a story of his
hay-dealing experiences, in which he had outwitted a sharper who had
been bent upon outwitting him.

"Ha-ha-ha!" responded his audience at the upshot of the story; and
hilarity was general till a new voice arose with, "This is all very
well; but how about the bad bread?"

It came from the lower end of the table, where there sat a group of
minor tradesmen who, although part of the company, appeared to be a
little below the social level of the others; and who seemed to nourish
a certain independence of opinion and carry on discussions not quite
in harmony with those at the head; just as the west end of a church
is sometimes persistently found to sing out of time and tune with the
leading spirits in the chancel.

This interruption about the bad bread afforded infinite satisfaction to
the loungers outside, several of whom were in the mood which finds its
pleasure in others' discomfiture; and hence they echoed pretty freely,
"Hey! How about the bad bread, Mr. Mayor?" Moreover, feeling none of the
restraints of those who shared the feast, they could afford to add, "You