“I don’t care if they were high or low,” said Hal; “I want to know what money they cost.”
“Different pigs cost different prices,” quoth the oracle, so sententiously, that Miss Fosbrook’s shoulders shook with laughing as she stood a little in the background of the eager heap in the window.
“A nice little pig, such as you’d give—”
“Hush, hush, Hal, it’s a secret,” cried Susan.
“A pretty sort of secret—known to eight already, and bawled out all over the yard,” said Sam.
“But don’t tell him what it’s for; you can ask him without that.”
“A nice little young pig,” said Sam, “such as you’d keep all the summer, and fat in the winter.”
“Mind, it ain’t for you, Purday,” cried Hal.
“Never fear my being disappointed, sir,” said the free-spoken Purday, with a twinkle of his eye, which Hal understood so well that he burst out,
“Ah! you think I can never do what I say I will; but you’ll see, Purday, if we don’t give a pig to—”