“No,” said David decidedly, “I shall stop here.”
He took his seat as he spoke on the corner of the settle nearest the pig, with the evident intention of waiting for Mrs Hatchard’s arrival; he was not going to lose a chance of inquiring closely into such an important subject.
And at last Mrs Hatchard came bustling in, cheerful, brisk, and ruddy-faced as usual, with many apologies for her delay. Miss Grey plunged at once into business with her, and the patient David sat silently biding his time for the fit moment to put his questions.
“Won’t you run out, little master?” said the good-natured farmer’s wife, noticing the grave little figure at last. “There’s the calves to see, and a fine litter of likely young pigs too.”
“No, thank you,” said David politely. “I want to know, please, why you keep this one little pig in here, and whether it’s ill.”
“Oh, aye,” said Mrs Hatchard, coming up to the basket and stooping to look at the occupant, which was now making a feeble grunting noise. “I’d most forgot it. You see it’s the Antony pig, and it’s that weakly and dillicut I took it away to give it a chance. I doubt I sha’n’t rear it, though, for it seems a poor little morsel of a thing.”
“How many other little pigs are there?” asked David.
“Why, there’s ten on ’em—all fine likely pigs except this one, and they do that push and struggle and fight there’s no chance for him.”
“Why do you call it the Antony pig?” pursued David with breathless interest.
“Well, I don’t rightly know why or wherefore,” said Mrs Hatchard; “it’s just a name the folks about here always give to the smallest pig in the litter.”