“But what are you going to do with him?” queried Bettie.
“Oh, I’ll just slip around to the kitchen door—if I ever get that far—and ask Charles to take care of him.”
“Charles won’t be home,” said Sallie. “That’s the time of day he goes to the station to get the bread.”
“Then I’ll take him up to my room,” said Mabel, whose pet was now quite satisfied in her arms. “Perhaps you could bring up a cup of milk for him.”
“Mabel never comes home empty handed,” laughed Marjory. “And she isn’t particular what she brings, as long as it’s alive.”
“Won’t Isabelle be pleased?” laughed Maude.
“Lend him to me, Mabel. I’ll put him in Miss Woodruff’s bed.”
“No you won’t. I’m not going to have him abused.”
“Well, beware of Isabelle,” giggled Marjory.
Forewarned is forearmed. Mabel succeeded in slipping the pig into her bedroom closet without disturbing Isabelle who was busy writing what she was pleased to call “a poem.” She sent them, as she confided to Mabel, to her friend Clarence. Of course, when Isabelle had a pencil in her hand and that faraway look in her eye she was not likely to notice mere pigs.