"I know what we must do--we must sell them at the market!"
"Where?"
"At Donnington."
"We shall want the cart and horse."
"Ask father."
"No. _You_ ask him--you know I always stammer so when I ask."
The speakers were two dark, straight-featured little boys of ten and
twelve, and the above conversation was carried on in eager whispers, for
they were not alone in the room.
It was rather dark, for the lamp had not been lighted yet, but they
could see the back of the vicar's head as he sat in his arm-chair by the
fire, and they knew from the look of it that he was absorbed in thought;
he had been reading earnestly as long as it was light enough, and
scarcely knew that the boys were in the room.
"_You_ ask," repeated Roger, the elder boy, "I always stammer so."
Little Gabriel clasped his hands nervously, and his deep-set eyes gazed
apprehensively at the back of his father's head.
"I don't like to," he murmured.
"But you must," urged Roger eagerly; "think of the pigs."
Thus encouraged, Gabriel got up and walked across the room. He thought
he could ask better if he did not face his father, so he stopped just at
the back of the chair and said timidly:
"Father."
The vicar looked round in a sort of dream and saw the little
knickerbockered figure standing there, with a wide-mouthed, nervous
smile on its face.
"Well," he said in an absent way.
"O please, father," said Gabriel, "may Roger and I have the cart and
horse to-morrow?"
"Eh, my boy? Cart and horse--what for?"
"Why," continued Gabriel hurriedly, "to-morrow's Donnington market, and
we can't sell our pigs here, and he thought--I thought--we thought, that
we might sell them there."
He gazed breathless at his father's face, and knew by its abstracted
expression that the vicar's thoughts were very far away from any
question of pigs--as indeed they were, for they were busy with the
subject of the pamphlet he had been reading.
"Foolish boys, foolish boys," he said, "do as you like."
"Then we may have it, father?"
"Do as you like, do as you like. Don't trouble, there's a good boy;"
and he turned round to the fire again without having half realised the
situation.
But Roger and Gabriel realised it fully, and the next morning between
five and six o'clock, while it was still all grey, and cold, and misty,
they set forth triumphantly on their way to market with the pigs
carefully netted over in the cart. Through the lanes, strewn thickly
with the brown and yellow leaves of late autumn, up the steep chalk hill
and over the bare bleak downs, the old horse pounded steadily along with
the two grave little boys and their squeaking black companions.
There was not much conversation on the road, for, although Gabriel was
an excitable and talkative boy, he was now so fully impressed by the
importance of the undertaking that he was unusually silent, and Roger
was naturally rather quiet and deliberate.
They had to drive between five and six miles to Donnington, and at last,
as they wound slowly down a long hill, they saw the town and the
cathedral towers lying at their feet.
They were a good deal too early, for in their excitement they had
started much too soon.
"But that is all the better," said Roger, "because we shall get a good
place."
Presently the pen, made of four hurdles, was ready, the pigs safely in
it, and the boys took their station in front of it and waited events.
Donnington market was a large one, well attended by all the fanners for
miles round; gradually they came rattling up in their carts and gigs, or
jogging along on horseback, casting shrewd glances at the various beasts
which had already been driven in. Some of the men knew the boys quite
well, and greeted them with, "Fine day, sir," and a broad stare of
surprise.
By the time the cathedral clock had sounded nine the market was in full
swing.
A medley of noises. The lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the
squeak of some outraged pig, mixed with the shouts of the drovers and
the loud excited voices of buyers and sellers. In the midst of all this
turmoil the little boys stood steadily at their post, looking up
anxiously as some possible buyer elbowed his way past and stopped a
minute to notice the black pigs; but none got further than "Good-day,
sir," and a grin of amusement.
So the day wore on. They had brought their dinner tied up in Roger's
handkerchief, and some acorns for the pigs, so at one o'clock they all
had a little meal together. There was a lull just then, for most of the
farmers had poured into the "Blue Boar" to dinner, and the people who
were left were engaged in steadily munching the contents of the baskets
they had brought with them.
Roger and Gabriel had not lost heart yet, and still hoped to sell the
pigs, but they certainly began to feel very tired, especially Gabriel,
who, having remained manfully upright all the morning, now felt such an
aching in the legs that he was obliged to take a seat on a basket turned
upside down.
The afternoon waned, it grew a little dusk, still no buyer. Soon the
boys knew that they must begin their long drive home. But, to take the
pigs back again; it was too heartrending to think of.
Then there was suddenly a little bustle in the market, and people moved
aside to let a new-comer pass down the narrow space between the pens
opposite to where the boys had placed themselves. It was a broad comely
gentleman of middle age, dressed in riding-boots, and cords, and a faded
green coat. He had a riding-whip in his hand, with which he touched the
brim of his hat in acknowledgment of the greetings round him; his dog
followed close on his heels. There was a pleased recognition on all the
faces, for everyone liked Squire Dale; he was a bold rider, and a good
shot, and a kind landlord.
"Hullo, boys," he said cheerily, for he knew Roger and Gabriel well,
"what are you doing here? Is your father in the town?"
"N-n-no," replied Roger, stammering very much; "we c-came to sell our
p-p-p-pigs."
"And we can't," put in Gabriel rather mournfully from his basket.
The squire's eyes twinkled, though his face was perfectly grave.
"Pigs, eh?" he said. "Whose pigs are they?"
"Our pigs," said Gabriel; "and if we sell them, we've got a plan."
The squire stood planted squarely in front of them with his hands in his
pockets, looking down at the serious little figures without speaking.
"Tiring work marketing, eh?" he said at last.
"G-Gabriel _is_ a little tired," replied Roger glancing at his younger
brother, whose face was white with fatigue.
"Well, now," continued Squire Dale, "it's an odd thing, but I just
happened to be walking through the market to see if I could find some
likely pigs for myself. But," with a glance at the dusky occupants of
the pen, "they _must_ be black."
Gabriel forgot that he was tired.
"They're beautiful black pigs," he cried, jumping up eagerly, "as black
as they can be. Berkshire pigs. Look at them."
So the squire looked at them; and not only looked at them, but asked the
price and bought them, putting the money into a very large
weather-beaten purse of Roger's; and presently the two happy boys were
seated opposite to him in the parlour of the "Blue Boar" enjoying a
substantial tea.
With renewed spirits they chatted away to their kind host, whose jolly
brown face beamed with interest and good-humour as he listened. At last
Gabriel put down his tea-cup with a deep-drawn sigh of contentment, and
said to his brother mysteriously:
"Shall we tell about the plan?"
Roger nodded. He could not speak just then, for he was in the act of
taking a large mouthful of bread and jam.
"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 shillings 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 assistance 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 shivering in his little bed,
and find it impossible to go to sleep again, while Roger snored
peacefully at his side.
It need hardly be said that the vicar knew nothing of these proceedings,
and Ben was at college, so matters were allowed to go on in this way for
nearly a month, by which time Gabriel had managed to get a very bad cold
on his chest, and a cough. As the pigs got fatter, and rounder, and
more lively, he became thinner, and whiter, and weaker--a perfect shadow
of a little boy; but still he would not give up his share of the work,
until one day he woke up from what seemed to him to have been a long
sleep, and found that he was lying in bed, in a room which was still
called the "nursery," and that he felt very tired and weak. He pulled
aside the curtain with a feeble little hand, and saw Roger sitting there
quite quietly, with his head bent over a book. How strange everything
was! What did it all mean? Then Roger raised his head.
"Oh, you're awake!" he said looking very pleased, "I will go and call
nurse."
He was going away on tip-toe, but Gabriel beckoned to him and he came
near.
"Roger," he said in a small whispering voice, "why am I in this room?"
"You're not to talk," said Roger. "You've been ill for a long time--a
fever--and oh," clasping his hands, "how you have been going on about
the pigs! You tried to get out of bed no end of times to go and feed
them; and I heard the doctor say to father, `We must manage to subdue
this restlessness--he _must_ have some quiet sleep.' And oh, we were
all so glad when you went to sleep, and now you will get quite well
soon."
Gabriel tried to say, "How are the pigs?" but he was really too weak, so
he only smiled, and Roger hurried out of the room to call the nurse.
Later on, when he was getting quite strong again, he heard all about it,
and how, by his father's advice, the pigs had been sold to a
neighbouring farmer.
"And they _are_ such jolly pigs," said Roger; "he says he never saw such
likely ones. And they knew me when I went to see them, and rubbed
against my legs. You see," he added, "it was really best to sell them,
because father says we are to go to school at Brighton soon, and then we
couldn't see after the farm."
So this was the end of the co-operative plan. Not carried out after
all, in spite of the patience and care bestowed upon it; but I feel sure
that in after years Roger and Gabriel were not unsuccessful men, if they
learnt their lessons at school and in life with half the determination
they used in rearing the black pigs.