“Sour or sweet, it makes no difference to me,” replied Tamba. “I am hungry enough to eat anything.”
“Well, I don’t want to be cross or impolite,” said Squinty, “but there is only enough sour milk for us pigs. We can’t give you any.”
“Ha! Well, I simply must have something to eat!” returned Tamba, and his voice was more growly now. “If I can’t get milk I must have meat. I remember once, in the jungle, eating a little pig who looked something like you. What’s to stop me taking a few bites off you, if you won’t give me any of your milk?”
“Oh, ho! So you think you can bite me, do you?” squealed Squinty. “Well, we’ll see about that!”
Now Squinty was a brave little animal, and he had seen more of the world than some of the other small pigs in the pen. In fact, Squinty had had a number of adventures, and those of you who have read my first book entitled, “Squinty, the Comical Pig,” know that Squinty was not much afraid of anything.
So no sooner did he hear Tamba talk that way, about taking bites, and so on, than Squinty ran to where there was a loose board in the pen, and out he popped.
“Ho! So you think because you’re a big, circus tiger that you can scare me, do you?” squealed Squinty. “Well, I’ll show you that I’m not a bit afraid!”
Now, as it happened, near the pen, where the farmer intended to use it the next day, was a pail of whitewash. It was like thick, white water, and the pail was full of it. Squinty gave one look at the pail of whitewash, and a glance at Tamba, who had taken his forepaws down off the edge of the pen, and was standing on all four feet looking at Squinty.
“There! Take that and see how you like it!” squealed Squinty, and with his strong nose, made for digging down under the ground after roots and things, Squinty upset the pail of whitewash and gave it a push toward Tamba.