"What the deuce do you mean by killing my pig?"
"Your pig ?" I smiled. "No, my Pig!"
"Stuff and nonsense!" he spluttered. "Your pig died four months ago—caught cold last July through being out so late at night and died next day."
That roused me. "Do you mean to tell me," I asked coldly, "that I've been paying five pounds a week for the last four months for a dead pig?"
"Very kind of you, I'm sure," replied the Doctor, "but no one asked you to, you know."
Adding together all my expenses—the weekly subscription for my pig; a similar sum paid to the Doctor for his; the value of my swill; the fine imposed (by DORA) for improper use of firearms; ditto (by the Magistrate) for shooting game without a licence; alleged damage to the P.P. premises and the remaining wits of their custodian; and finally, the bill from Mr. Perkins for a pound of pork purchased in July, and the account from Dr. Jones for professional attendance subsequent to consumption of same—adding all these together I find that from first to last I disbursed £385 5s. 5-1/2d. on the patriot.
With pork at two shillings a pound my outlay should have produced a pig that weighed 1 ton 14-1/2 cwt. Truly that would have been a very Hindenburg of a pig. It was almost worth trying.
OUR EUPHEMISTS.
"General Servant wanted, by middle of February; no small family."—Oxford Times.