He walked with a sidewise, writhing motion suggestive of the malevolent approach of a giant cobra. This was not due to partial paralysis resultant from an accident as many persons believed, but from a congenital deformity extending to the brain structure and transforming that which might have been human into a diabolical monstrosity. In a more populous section of the country Peter Grimes would have been removed in his youth from contact with normal persons and cared for in an institution. But in the isolated hill country of the south he grew to maturity unsuspected of being a menace to society, though shunned and feared for his cruel acts and taciturn disposition. His hog farm was not inaugurated until after his common law marriage with Maria Honeycut, whose father owned the land and for years operated a still in the fastnesses of its quagmire protected borders. Old Honeycut had been shot by a revenue officer that he tried to throw into the bog, and the illicit distillery had been destroyed. Maria, the daughter, remained on the premises, working spasmodically in the truck patch and sometimes trudging to town to dispose of vegetables in exchange for sugar, corn-meal and other commodities. Peter Grimes, with the craft of a serpent saw his opportunity. He visited Maria in her lonely abode and told her she needed a man. Maria, dull-witted and fearful, accepted the statement without question and Peter remained. A son was born and they named him Ambrose, the name of the old moonshiner who had sought to throw the revenue officer into the bog. From the time he could toddle young Ambrose had amused himself by throwing everything he disliked into the bog, as his grandfather had done before him. The child laughed and clapped his hands to see the frantic struggles of bird and animal to escape the suction of that black mire which slowly, steadily pulled them down, down, down into its foul depths until nothing remained on the surface but sluggish ripples of mud, lapping over the spot where the hapless victim passed from sight. It was hellish but young Ambrose laughed. It was hellish but his strange father approved. It was hellish but his mother accepted it as a matter of course. She had seen such things all her life. She supposed it was what bogs were for. With the advent of young Ambrose the forlorn truck patch became more and more neglected. Peter Grimes was not given to manual labor. Maria was naturally shiftless. They had to live, so Peter sold a hog. The sale gave him an idea. When an expected litter arrived he did not dispose immediately of the young pigs but fed them until they were of a size to bring a better price. Then he affixed a sign to the high gate which effectually shut off all view of the farm from the one precarious roadway leading to its portals. The sign was a piece of shingle with crude lettering in black paint: "Hogs for Sale."