“Is there no way to get him, father?” said Charlie, with downcast looks, while the tears stood in his eyes.
“Perhaps he will come out to-night, and come round the house when he grows hungry, and all is still. I will set a box-trap, and put some corn in it, and we can, I think, catch him.”
While they were talking they heard a squealing in the direction of the sty, and, looking around, saw the pig poking his nose out between the logs, and squealing for his dinner.
With a shout of joy, Charlie jumped over the fence, and caught the pig up in his arms, and hugged him, and scratched him. “You pretty little creature!” said he, “you shall have some dinner. I thought I had lost you. But, father, mother, how did he get back into the pen and we never see him?”
“He never did get back; he has never been out of it.”
“Then, what pig was that in the woods?”
“That’s more than I know, Charles.”
It was Charlie’s turn to be puzzled now, as well as the rest. They examined the pen all round; there was not a crack large enough to let a pig through.
“I declare,” said Sally, “I’m almost frightened.”
“I can’t tell what it means,” said Ben; “there’s certainly another pig in the woods.”