A medley of noises. The lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the squeak of some outraged pig, mixed with the shouts of the drovers and the loud excited voices of buyers and sellers. In the midst of all this turmoil the little boys stood steadily at their post, looking up anxiously as some possible buyer elbowed his way past and stopped a minute to notice the black pigs; but none got further than “Good-day, sir,” and a grin of amusement.
So the day wore on. They had brought their dinner tied up in Roger’s handkerchief, and some acorns for the pigs, so at one o’clock they all had a little meal together. There was a lull just then, for most of the farmers had poured into the “Blue Boar” to dinner, and the people who were left were engaged in steadily munching the contents of the baskets they had brought with them.
Roger and Gabriel had not lost heart yet, and still hoped to sell the pigs, but they certainly began to feel very tired, especially Gabriel, who, having remained manfully upright all the morning, now felt such an aching in the legs that he was obliged to take a seat on a basket turned upside down.
The afternoon waned, it grew a little dusk, still no buyer. Soon the boys knew that they must begin their long drive home. But, to take the pigs back again; it was too heartrending to think of.
Then there was suddenly a little bustle in the market, and people moved aside to let a new-comer pass down the narrow space between the pens opposite to where the boys had placed themselves. It was a broad comely gentleman of middle age, dressed in riding-boots, and cords, and a faded green coat. He had a riding-whip in his hand, with which he touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgment of the greetings round him; his dog followed close on his heels. There was a pleased recognition on all the faces, for everyone liked Squire Dale; he was a bold rider, and a good shot, and a kind landlord.
“Hullo, boys,” he said cheerily, for he knew Roger and Gabriel well, “what are you doing here? Is your father in the town?”
“N–n–no,” replied Roger, stammering very much; “we c–came to sell our p–p–p–pigs.”
“And we can’t,” put in Gabriel rather mournfully from his basket.
The squire’s eyes twinkled, though his face was perfectly grave.
“Pigs, eh?” he said. “Whose pigs are they?”