“Our pigs,” said Gabriel; “and if we sell them, we’ve got a plan.”
The squire stood planted squarely in front of them with his hands in his pockets, looking down at the serious little figures without speaking.
“Tiring work marketing, eh?” he said at last.
“G–Gabriel is a little tired,” replied Roger glancing at his younger brother, whose face was white with fatigue.
“Well, now,” continued Squire Dale, “it’s an odd thing, but I just happened to be walking through the market to see if I could find some likely pigs for myself. But,” with a glance at the dusky occupants of the pen, “they must be black.”
Gabriel forgot that he was tired.
“They’re beautiful black pigs,” he cried, jumping up eagerly, “as black as they can be. Berkshire pigs. Look at them.”
So the squire looked at them; and not only looked at them, but asked the price and bought them, putting the money into a very large weather-beaten purse of Roger’s; and presently the two happy boys were seated opposite to him in the parlour of the “Blue Boar” enjoying a substantial tea.
With renewed spirits they chatted away to their kind host, whose jolly brown face beamed with interest and good-humour as he listened. At last Gabriel put down his tea-cup with a deep-drawn sigh of contentment, and said to his brother mysteriously:
“Shall we tell about the plan?”