“Father wouldn’t like that,” said Roger.
“Why, possibly not,” said the squire; “you see it’s not always nice to have cattle and pigs too close to a house. But I tell you what; you know that little field of mine near the church, I’m wanting to let that off, how would that do?”
“It would be just the very thing,” said Roger, “but,” he added reflectively, “we couldn’t afford to give you much for it.”
“You must talk it over with Ben,” said the squire rising, “it’s not an expensive little bit of land, and I should say about ten shillings a year would be about the right price. And now, boys, you must start for home—as it is you won’t be there much before dark.”
The co-operative plan began very well indeed. Roger and Gabriel, with a little assistance and advice from their eldest brother Ben, built a capital sty on Squire Dale’s little bit of land, which was conveniently near the vicarage, and soon, behold them the proud possessors of a sow and nine black pigs! The boys’ pride and pleasure were immense, and nothing could exceed their care and attention to the mother and her children; perhaps these were overdone, which may account for the tragic event which shortly took place.
The little pigs were about two weeks old, very “peart” and lively, and everything was proceeding in a satisfactory manner, when one morning Gabriel went to visit them as usual with a pail of food. As he neared the sty, he heard, instead of the low “choug, choug, choug,” to which he was accustomed, nothing but a chorus of distressed little squeaks. He quickened his steps; his heart beat very fast; he looked over the edge of the sty, and, oh horror! The sow was stretched flat on her side quite dead, while her black family squeaked and struggled and poked at each other with their little pointed snouts.
Quick as lightning he grasped the situation, and throwing down the pail which he held rushed back to the house, almost stunning Roger, whom he met on the way, with the dreadful news. There was no time to be lost—if the pigs were to be saved they must be fed at once. In hot haste the boys returned with a wheel-barrow, put the seven little creatures into it, for two out of the nine were dead, and took them into the vicarage kitchen. Then each boy, with a pig held tenderly in his arms like a baby, crouched in front of the broad hearth and tried to induce them to swallow some warm milk.
“Choug, choug, choug,” grunted Gabriel in fond imitation of the mother pig.
“Ch–ch–choug,” repeated Roger, dandling his his charge on the other side.