Part 13 (2/2)

”Shall I tell it,” said Gabriel, ”or you?”

”You,” said Roger huskily.

”You see,” began Gabriel, turning to the squire confidentially, ”it is a coperative plan.”

”A what?” interrupted the squire.

”That's not the right word,” said Roger; ”he means co-co-co--”

”Oh yes, I know, co-operative. Isn't that it?”

”Yes, that's it, of course,” continued Gabriel, speaking very quickly for fear that Roger should take the matter out of his hands. ”We're going to put our money together, and Ben is going to put some money in too, and then we shall buy a pig; and when it has a litter we shall sell them, and perhaps buy a calf, and so we shall get some live stock, and have a farm, and share the profits.”

Gabriel sat very upright while he spoke, with a deepening flush on his cheeks. The squire leaned forward with a hand on each knee, and listened attentively.

”Well,” he said, ”that seems a good plan. Where's the farm to be? In the vicarage garden?”

”Father wouldn't like that,” said Roger.

”Why, possibly not,” said the squire; ”you see it's not always nice to have cattle and pigs too close to a house. But I tell you what; you know that little field of mine near the church, I'm wanting to let that off, how would that do?”

”It would be just the very thing,” said Roger, ”but,” he added reflectively, ”we couldn't afford to give you much for it.”

”You must talk it over with Ben,” said the squire rising, ”it's not an expensive little bit of land, and I should say about ten s.h.i.+llings a year would be about the right price. And now, boys, you must start for home--as it is you won't be there much before dark.”

The co-operative plan began very well indeed. Roger and Gabriel, with a little a.s.sistance and advice from their eldest brother Ben, built a capital sty on Squire Dale's little bit of land, which was conveniently near the vicarage, and soon, behold them the proud possessors of a sow and nine black pigs! The boys' pride and pleasure were immense, and nothing could exceed their care and attention to the mother and her children; perhaps these were overdone, which may account for the tragic event which shortly took place.

The little pigs were about two weeks old, very ”peart” and lively, and everything was proceeding in a satisfactory manner, when one morning Gabriel went to visit them as usual with a pail of food. As he neared the sty, he heard, instead of the low ”choug, choug, choug,” to which he was accustomed, nothing but a chorus of distressed little squeaks. He quickened his steps; his heart beat very fast; he looked over the edge of the sty, and, oh horror! The sow was stretched flat on her side quite dead, while her black family squeaked and struggled and poked at each other with their little pointed snouts.

Quick as lightning he grasped the situation, and throwing down the pail which he held rushed back to the house, almost stunning Roger, whom he met on the way, with the dreadful news. There was no time to be lost-- if the pigs were to be saved they must be fed at once. In hot haste the boys returned with a wheel-barrow, put the seven little creatures into it, for two out of the nine were dead, and took them into the vicarage kitchen. Then each boy, with a pig held tenderly in his arms like a baby, crouched in front of the broad hearth and tried to induce them to swallow some warm milk.

”Choug, choug, choug,” grunted Gabriel in fond imitation of the mother pig.

”Ch-ch-choug,” repeated Roger, dandling his his charge on the other side.

Presently all the seven pigs were warmed and fed, and put into a large rabbit-hutch just outside the kitchen door; they were quiet now, and lay in a black contented heap, with their little eyes blinking lazily. The boys stood and looked at them gravely.

”We shall have to feed them every hour,” said Roger, ”Zillah says so.”

”Oh! Roger,” cried Gabriel doubtfully, ”do you think we shall ever bring them up?”

”We _will_ bring them up,” replied Roger, clenching his fist with quiet determination.

But it really was not such an easy matter as some people might suppose, and especially was it difficult to manage at night. The boys divided the work in a business-like manner, and took turns to go down every alternate hour to feed their troublesome foster-children. Zillah, the cook, allowed the hutch to be brought into the kitchen at night, and undertook to feed the pigs at six o'clock in the morning, but until then the boys were responsible and never once flinched from what they had undertaken. It was getting cold weather now, and bed was delightfully cosy and warm, but nevertheless little Gabriel would tumble out with his eyes half shut, at Roger's first whisper of ”Your turn now,” and creep through the lonely house and down the kitchen stairs. They had arranged an ingenious feeding apparatus with a quill inserted through the cork of a medicine bottle, and the pigs took to it quite kindly, sucked away vigorously, and throve apace.

But it was hard work, when the first excitement of it was over, and Gabriel felt it particularly; he was a delicate boy, and after one or two of these night excursions he would lie s.h.i.+vering in his little bed, and find it impossible to go to sleep again, while Roger snored peacefully at his side.

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