"We do—on't kn—o—ow; o—h o-o-h," wailed the little girl.
"Stomach pains, I fancy," said the man in his sing-song voice.
A smothered blubber came from the woman on the grass, with whom, woman-like, Esther had been commiserating tenderly.
"Belly-ache," she vouched confidently between the emission of a couple of small-sized tear-drops, which just then trickled from her reddened eyes, grazed her chin, and fell splashing on her rain-coat. "I fed 'er reg'lar, an' all. In fact, she lived just like one of us."
A second, and closer, inspection revealed to Bert that the dead porker's ears were in a shocking state. They were mangled, and almost non-existent. Indicating them with the toe of his boot, he said: "What did that?"
"She used to play with Daisy a lot—in the box there," the man observed, and he nodded towards a little cage arrangement which was suspended to the back of the wagon by means of a length of rope. "Got a bit rough with one another at times," he added.
"Daisy's ears's the same," snuffled the woman on the ground.
Bert and Sam walked round to the cage to inspect Daisy, whilst Esther comforted the grieving females. Sure enough, the ears of the surviving piggy were chewed almost completely off.
"Started to eat one anuvver, my Gawd if they didn't!" Sam exclaimed. "Pore little bleeders!"—then, turning to the man, he said: "Buy 'em at Sarskatoon?"
"Yes—at a farm just this side. Five dollars each. And them three fowls there, a dollar apiece."