“Is it a duck ye’ve got, thin?” asked Pat. “Sure, haven’t we one oursilves?”
Sammy said nothing, but drawing his jacket aside, showed the little white head and twinkling eyes of a pig of very small size—a roaster, in fact, in excellent condition.
“It’s a pig ye’ve got. Didn’t I know the squale of it? Didn’t I say it was? It’s me that knows the voice of a pig. Hurroo, boys! we’re goin’ to have a banquet, so we are. Where did ye get it, thin, Sammy, jewel?”
“Don’t talk so loud,” said Sammy, looking cautiously all around. “They’ll hear you.”
“It’s mum I’ll be, thin. But where did ye get it, darlin’?” said Pat, in a soft, coaxing whisper.
“Up there.”
“Where? Pratt’s?”
“No.”
“Where thin?”
“O, never mind. It wasn’t near any house. It was in a field. There were a dozen of them; and I was so hungry I couldn’t help it.”