"And what better comrade than a blessed female, my loving dear, and who'd know that better than me?"
"Don't you go mixing me up with the pigs, Willum; I won't have it. What's the name of that perky black one?"
"Mount Royal," said Uncle Billy. "I'm a King's man and like to respect they set over me. Royal just means one of the King's family."
The parade was dismissed; the herd returned to its home and Uncle Billy paid the cost of wear and tear.
He sat smoking that evening in a state of blissful content. All had gone well; the dreaded black moment was over. Mrs. Pugsley knitted furiously in silence.
"Now what might you be turning over in that mind of yours?" asked Uncle Billy.
"Pigs."
"Couldn't do better."
"And their names. Maybe you won't christen any more until after the Cesarewitch."
She folded up her knitting and went to bed, leaving Uncle Billy as if turned to stone. When he recovered he sought out Uncle Eli and said:—