“My dear sir,” said Mr. Wigmore blandly, “my advice to you is—drop the case.”
Ug stared.
“And not get my pig back?” he quavered.
“What,” said Mr. Wigmore philosophically, “is a pig more or less in the cosmic scheme?”
“But he’s mine! I want my pig!” Ug was nearly in tears.
“Possession,” remarked Mr. Wigmore, showing impatience, “is nine points of the law. You came to me for advice. I gave it to you. You have received it. The law says nothing that would help you. Forget the pig.”
“But that isn’t fair! He’s mine! Patsy Duffy is a thief!”
Mr. Wigmore grew stern.
“Take care, young man,” he said. “There are laws against slander. Mr. Duffy is a respected member of this community. His brother is the sheriff, his brother-in-law is the county judge and his son is the district attorney. Good afternoon. What a bright warm day it is, isn’t it?”
Ug found himself on Main Street, stunned. He had appealed to the law and it had failed him. It didn’t seem possible that so learned a man as Marcellus Q. Wigmore could be wrong, and yet Ug found himself embracing that heresy. It seemed to him that he had a right to get his pig back. He decided to appeal to another of Uncle Sam’s representatives, the superintendent of the reservation.