Sallie had contrived a nursing bottle for the infant. Mabel, seated on the closet floor, succeeded in feeding her charge and presently made a nest for him by dumping the stockings out of her round mending basket; but to her surprise the pig, not being built that way, refused to curl. His tail curled beautifully but the rest of him wouldn’t. In no way, in fact, was he as accommodating an animal as a kitten or even a puppy.
“If he’d only just cuddle,” groaned Mabel, “he’d be so much more comfortable to live with.”
It was somewhere about midnight when Isabelle became aware of the pig. Mabel had been aware of him for a great many sleepless hours. Either he had had too much to eat or not enough. Perhaps he was only lonesome. At any rate he was quiet only when Mabel held him close to her own warm body and kept one or more of her fingers in his mouth. She had spent part of the night on the floor among the shoes; but the floor was hard and Mabel was sleepy; so finally she had crept into her own bed and taken the infant pig with her.
But nothing she could do seemed to please him. His squeals became louder and louder and more and more frequent. At last one of his very best squeals escaped from under the bedclothes.
“My goodness!” gasped Isabelle, suddenly sitting up in bed. “What’s that! Was that you, Mabel?”
“No,” returned Mabel, truthfully. “I didn’t speak.”
“It wasn’t a ‘speak’—it was more like a squeak.”
Piggy chose that moment to let out a smothered “Wee Wee!” in spite of Mabel’s restraining hand.
“Mabel, it is you. Are you sick?”
“I—I’m not sleeping very well,” offered Mabel, trying not to giggle. “I’m quite restless.”