It was four o’clock of the afternoon when Pony Billy trotted into
Codlin Croft orchard with Paddy Pig. Sandy and the farm dogs barked
joyfully; the turkey cock gobbled; Charles crowed; and Jenny
Ferret waved a dishcloth on the caravan steps. Even Tuppenny and
Xarifa—dolefully confined in hampers—clapped their little paws in
welcome. Paddy Pig took no notice of these greetings. He slid from the
saddle, and sat by the camp fire in a heap.
“He looks poorly,” said Sandy, anxiously, “fetch a shawl, Jenny
Ferret.” “Ill; very ill,” said Paddy Pig. They wrapped him in the
shawl and gave him tea; he was thirsty, but he had no appetite. The
raw potatoes appeared to have disagreed, on top of the tartlets. As
evening closed in, he shivered more and more. The company plied him
with questions—how did he get across the water into Pringle Wood?
“Over a plank.” “I don’t remember any plank bridge,” said Pony Billy,
“perhaps it might be a tree that had been washed down by the flood?”
“Why did you not come back the same way?” “It was gone,” said Paddy
Pig, swaying himself about. “What did you do in the wood?” “I tumbled
down. Things pulled my tail and pinched me, and peeped at me round
trees,” said Paddy Pig, shuddering. “What sort of things?” “Green
things with red noses. Oh, oh, oh!” he squealed, “there is a red nose
looking at me out of the teapot! Take me away, Pony Billy! I’m going
to be sick!” “He is very unwell,” said Jenny Ferret, “he should be put
to bed at once.” But where? In an ordinary way, Paddy Pig and Sandy
slept in dry straw underneath the caravan. But everybody knows that
it is unsafe to allow a delirious pig to sleep on the cold ground.
“Do you think we could squeeze him through the door into the caravan,
if I pulled and you pushed?” said Sandy. Jenny Ferret shook her head,
“He is too big. We might have crammed him into the go-cart; but it is
not here; it was left behind, by the ford.” “He must sleep indoors
somehow,” said Sandy. “Why all this discussion?” said Charles the cock.
“Let our honored visitor, Mr. Patrick Pig, sleep in the middle stall of
the stable. It is empty. Maggret, our mare, stands in the stall next to
the window. And there is hay, as well as straw. I, myself, scratched
it out of the hay-rack. Cock-a-doodle doo! And there is even a horse
rug. A large buff, moth-eaten blanket, bound with red braid,” said
Charles, swelling with importance. “The very thing! provided Maggret
has no objection,” said Sandy. “Come, Paddy Pig.” The invalid rose
stiffly to his feet. But he flopped down again, nearly into the fire
(which would have caused another red nose for certain, had he fallen
into it). It was necessary to borrow a wheelbarrow; also the stable
lantern, as by this time it was dark. Fortunately, Farmer Hodgson had
bedded up the mare, and fed all for the night. He was having his own
supper, quite unconscious that his stable had been requisitioned as
a hospital for sick pigs. He supped in the kitchen; and the windows
looked another way. Mrs. Hodgson had occasion to go to the pantry for
cheese and a pasty. She glanced through the small diamond panes towards
the orchard and the warm glow that was Jenny Ferret’s stick fire, “’Tis
a red rising moon. Will it freeze?” “Bad for the lambs if so be,” said
Farmer Hodgson, cutting the apple pasty. Paddy Pig did not improve; he
became worse. His mind wandered. He talked continually about red noses;
and he thought that there were green caterpillars in the manger. He
was so obsessed with red-nosed peepers that he would have bolted out
of the stable if his legs had been strong enough. “Someone must sit up
with him,” said Jenny Ferret, “I am no use; I’m only an old body. And
you, Sandy, ought to remain on guard at the camp. What is to be done?”
“I should esteem it a privilege to be permitted to act as nurse; I am
accustomed to night watching,” said Cheesebox, the smithy cat. She
had arrived with Mettle, hoping for a circus show; but the company
were so anxious about Paddy Pig that they felt unable to give any
performance. “I should esteem it a privilege to sit up with Mr. Patrick
Pig. At the same time I should prefer to have a colleague to share the
responsibility. Send for Mrs. Scales’ Mary Ellen. She has an invaluable
prescription for sick pigs. And she understands worm-in-tail,” said
Cheesebox; “had it been the time of the moon, we would have hung up
rowan berries in the stall. But failing that propicious season, she has
medicinal herbs of great virtue. Send for Mary Ellen!” Sandy looked
doubtful; “I presume she is another cat? I am afraid she might refuse
to come with me, if I went to fetch her. Could _you_ go, Pony Billy?
Are you too tired?” Pony Billy sighed the sigh of a weary horse; “Not
tired; not at all; but my shoes are past bearing. And here is Mettle
out for a lark; otherwise I would have gone to the smithy and had them
altered. In any case I was intending to fetch the tilt-cart.” “Go for
the cart before your shoes are changed, Billy. You left it over near to
Pringle Wood. I will undertake to have the hearth hot, long before you
will reach the smithy.”
Pony Billy paced across the meadow in the starlight. The hill of oaks
rose dark and black against the sky. On the ground beneath the trees
a few lights were twinkling: whether they were glowworms or red-noses
is uncertain, as Pony Billy did not go to look! On the outskirts of
the wood, under an eller bush, he found the little cart where he had
left it. He placed himself between the shafts and pulled—once, twice,
again—what a weight! Yet the baggage had all been lifted out, as well
as Xarifa and Tuppenny. Pony Billy tugged and pulled till he moved it
with a sudden plunge, that took both the cart and himself over the
bank into running water. Thousands of oak-apples washed out of the
cart-kist, and changed into sparkling bubbles. They floated away down
Wilfin Beck, dancing and glittering in the star-light. He crossed the
ford, and made his way to the smithy, without any further adventure.
[Illustration]