“Yes,” remarked Aaron, “she’s big enough to go to the field now. We need her there right now.”
This didn’t suit Drusilla at all, so she ran toward the others, laughing.
“I wuz des foolin’,” she said. “I des wanted ter see what you-all gwine ter do. You may not need me, but I’m gwine anyhow, an’ ef de White Pig git me, you’ll hatter answer to Mistiss for it.”
Aaron hitched a mule to the plantation cart, and in this rig they made their way to the two-mile place. They jogged along the little-used road, the journey being enlivened by some of the queer songs that Aaron was in the habit of singing when he was in a good humor. They went nearly to the river—the Oconee—and then Aaron turned out of the plantation road, and drove straight through the woods and bushes until they came in sight of a big cane-brake. Here he stopped, took the mule from the cart, and fastened him with a long tether, so that he could browse around, and nibble the grass and bushes. Then he lifted Sweetest Susan to his broad shoulders, took Buster John by the hand, and went toward the cane-brake. He went on until he came to the damp ground near the edge of the swamp. Selecting a dry place—a little knoll higher than the rest—Aaron stationed the children there, and then went to the verge of the cane-brake. Here he paused, placed his two hands to his mouth, and gave utterance to a peculiar call, or cry. It sounded as if he were trying to say, “Goof—goof—goof!” but had smothered the noise with his hands. It was loud enough to be heard a considerable distance, however, for after he had repeated the call three times there was a reply from the farther side of the swamp, and presently the children heard a rushing, crashing sound among the canes.
Sweetest Susan crept a little closer to Buster John, and Drusilla snuggled up to Sweetest Susan. The children were not frightened, but they were filled with unknown anticipations. They knew not what to expect next. The crashing noise in the canes seemed to come nearer, and then it suddenly stopped. If it was the White Pig, he was listening.
“Come, White Pig! Come, Grunter, come!” called Aaron. “Are you then afraid?”
The crashing sound in the canes was renewed more violently than ever, and in a moment the White Pig—the terror of the plantation—burst from the reeds with a grunt that was nearly a roar.
“I dunner what they call him a pig fer,” whispered Drusilla, “he big enough for two hogs.”
And this was true. The White Pig was not fat, but he was lean and tall. He was not a pretty pig by any means. There was a vicious twinkle in his eye. His body was nearly covered with mud, and one of his ears was gone, having been torn away by dogs when he was less able to defend himself than now.