Along the road Melanthius son of Dolius met them, driving goats, the finest of the flock, for the suitors’ dinner. Two herdsmen came with him. When he saw them he broke into ugly abuse, and his words cut Odysseus to the heart:
“Look at this — one scoundrel leading another. Heaven pairs like with like. Where are you taking this walking ruin, you master of swine? A nuisance at feast-tables — he will rub his shoulders on many doorposts, begging scraps, never looking for sword-work or cauldrons.”
As he passed he kicked Odysseus on the hip out of pure spite. Odysseus stood firm and did not leave the path. He weighed whether to leap on the man and kill him with his staff, or lift him and dash his head on the ground. He hardened his heart and endured. The swineherd looked the goatherd in the face and cursed him, lifting his hands to heaven:
Melanthius the goatherd snapped back, “How this dog talks. Someday I will put him on a ship and sell him far away for a good price. I wish Apollo of the silver bow would strike Telemachus in the halls today, or the suitors kill him, as surely as Odysseus has lost his day of return in a distant land.”
Odysseus and the loyal swineherd drew near. Around them rose the sound of the lyre — Phemius was striking up a song. Odysseus caught Eumaeus’s hand and said, “Eumaeus, this is Odysseus’s house — a fine place. Building follows building. The court has a wall with coping. The double doors are well made. No man could scorn it. I can tell many men are feasting inside.”
Eumaeus said, “You see keenly, as you usually do. Now think what we should do. Will you go in first among the suitors, and leave me here — or shall I go first, and you wait? Do not linger long, or someone may see you and throw something or strike you. Think it through.”
Odysseus answered, “I hear you. Go in first and leave me here. I am used to blows and thrown things. My heart is hardened — I have suffered much on waves and in war. Let this be added to the rest. But I cannot hide a hungry belly. It brings many evils on men and sets ships sailing over the barren sea to carry trouble to enemies.”
While they spoke, a dog lying there lifted his head and pricked his ears — Argos, whom Odysseus himself had bred before he sailed for Troy, and never hunted after. Once the young men had taken him after wild goats, deer, and hares.
Odysseus looked aside and wiped away a tear, hiding it from Eumaeus, and said, “Eumaeus, what a fine hound that is on the dung-heap. His build is excellent. Was he as good as he looks, or only one of those table-dogs masters keep for show?”
“This hound,” said Eumaeus, “belonged to a man who died far away. If he were what he was when Odysseus left for Troy, you would soon see his speed and strength. No wild creature he started in the deep woods escaped him. He was keen on the track. Now evil has taken him. His master has died abroad, and the careless women do not tend him.”