"Dunno, mum," answered the pinder, in a tone that suggested an utter lack of interest in the subject. "But it's none a Little Peter's pig—it's too thin, there's naught but skin and bone on it. It's my opinion, mum, it would eat anything, that pig would, if it had the chance."
"And who is going to feed it in the pound?" asked Miss Lavinia.
Burton shook his head. He was much more concerned about feeding himself than about feeding the pig.
"Dunno, mum," he replied. "It's none of my business. And nobody might never come for that there pig, and it's naught but skin and bone as it is."
"The poor animal needs food and rest," said Miss Lavinia with decision. She turned and called across her lawn. "Mitchell—come here," she commanded.
A man who was obviously a gardener approached, looking his curiosity. Miss Lavinia indicated the group in the road below the holly-hedge.
"Mitchell," she said, "isn't there a piggery in the stable-yard?"
Mitchell, coachman, gardener, general factotum in Miss Lavinia's small establishment, gathered an idea of what his mistress meant and almost gasped. A pig in his scrupulously kept preserves!
"Well, ma'am," he said, rubbing his chin, "there is certainly a sty, ma'am. But it's never been used since we came here, ma'am."
"Then we will use it now, Mitchell," said Miss Lavinia. "There is a poor animal which needs rest and refreshment. Burton and the bigger boys will help you to drive it in, and Burton may have a pint of ale, and the boys some apples. See that the pig has straw, or hay, or whatever is proper, Mitchell, and feed it well. Now, all you smaller children, run home to your dinners."