“Will you beat me, little Hop-o’-my-thumb?”
Bertie put himself before the poor black pig, who was squealing from mere fright and the scorch of the fire.
“You shall not get the pig without killing me first. You are a cruel man.”
The man grew angry.
“Tell you what, youngster: I’ve a mind to try the jumping-irons on you for your impudence. You look like a drowned white kitten. Clear off, if you don’t want to taste something right red hot.”
Bertie’s whole body grew sick, but he did not move and he did not quail.
“I would rather you did it to me than to this poor thing,” he answered.
“I’m blowed!” said the man, relaxing his wrath from sheer amazement. “Well, you’re a good plucked one, you are.”
“I do not know what you mean,” said Bertie, a little haughtily; “but you shall not hurt the pig.”