"Are they fussy?" panted Dallas as he hurried along beside her. "I thought pigs liked dirt."
"Indeed they don't. You just watch them travelling round with their mouths full of clean straw. First, though, comes pig-wash."
As we stepped inside the cellar we saw the lines of pigs part. The big ones went to long troughs full of sour milk, the little fellows filed through a small door.
"Where are the young chappies going?" asked Dallas.
"To the pig cafeteria. There are self-feeders there. What in the name of common sense are they yelling about?" and she vaulted over a railing.
"It's that scamp Big Chief," she called presently. "He pretends to love his pigs, yet the little darlings haven't a morsel of food. I'll tell Dad on him," and she scuttled up a stairway to the barn floor.
Presently she came back with two pails of feed.
Dallas watched her with wondering eyes. Then he put his fingers in his ears. The yells of the indignant small pigs were terrific. One would think they were being murdered.
"And no corn for the big pigs," said Cassowary presently. "I'll have to go to the grain-room again. Dad will dock Big Chief's weekly pocket money for this. I hope he won't leave him a cent."