“Well, it must be a puzzling trade,” remarked the dealer.
“Puzzling, Sir! By heavens! Sir, my heart bleeds for men of letters, Sir—they are great creatures, Sir—wonderful natures, Sir—we cannot think too highly of them, Sir—cannot sufficiently reward them, Sir! Now, Sir, it is perfectly unknown my liberality towards that young man! But then, Sir—it is my delight, Sir, when I find real genius, Sir—when I meet with a man of original mind, Sir—by heavens! Sir,” again cried Mr Tinfoil, resorting to the exclamation as an outlet for his overcharged feelings.
The pig was duly measured—the piece prepared—and, having been produced at enormous expense, was sealed with the unqualified approbation of a discerning public.
The pig-drama had been represented about twenty nights, when the author of the piece, in friendly converse with his patron manager, remarked “that the porker had been a most profitable venture.”
“Why, Sir,” replied Mr Tinfoil, “tolerably well; but the fact is, I am obliged to bolster him. He has had the advantage of three new afterpieces, and therefore can’t complain that he has been let down. Still, the pig has done very well, and perhaps may run a fortnight more.” Saying this Tinfoil quaffed from a brimming glass of his chosen fluid.
“At all events,” remarked the author, “the pig possesses one advantage not to be found in any other of your actors.”
“And what, Sir,” asked Mr Tinfoil, “what may that be?”
“Why, after the pig has done his work, and the piece is put by, you may eat the pig.”
The manager started from the inhuman man of letters with a look of mingled horror, disgust and pity. When he had somewhat recovered from his amazement he asked with evident loathing, “What did you say, Sir?”
“I said,” replied the insensible author, “that when the pig had played out his part you might eat him.”