“Then why call me?” asked the White Pig.
Aaron shook his head slowly. “You are right,” he replied. “Why should I call you at night, when I have a basket of new corn scattered for you?”
“Humph!” grunted the White Pig.
“I call you because I choose to. The children yonder have seen the sign; they have been touched. They know who we are and what we are. Two belong by blood to the Little Master. That is enough for me.”
“Humph! Boof! Son of Ben Ali, it is also enough for me. Goof! I have seen them—they have seen me—what more can I do? Why should I stay? The mud in the swamp is soft and cool, but here the sun shines hot.”
“If I had a bag of corn,” suggested Aaron.
“I say nothing, Son of Ben Ali. I see no corn, and the sun shines hot. What am I to do?”
“These who have been touched and who have seen the sign are here to speak with you. They came to hear you tell of the time when you and I lived in these fields together, sleeping and hiding in the daytime, and slipping about at night.”
The White Pig’s bristles no longer stood up.
“Humph!” he grunted. “I will go wallow in the branch and wash the mud off.”