When the Heatherdale Hussars received a two-hours' notice to "trek"
they, of course, dumped their mascot, Hyldebrand, a six-months-old wild
boar, at the Town Major's. They would have done the same with a baby or
a full-grown hippopotamus. The harassed T.M. discovered Hyldebrand in
the next stable to his slightly hysterical horse the morning after the
H.H. had evacuated, and informed me (his village Sanitary Inspector)
that "as I was fond of animals" (he had seen me distributing fly-traps
and painting horse-trough notice-boards) I was henceforth in sole
command of Hyldebrand until such time as his owners should reclaim him.
A grant of five sous _per diem_ had been left for the piglette's
maintenance.
I took charge of Hyldebrand, provided an old dog-kennel for his shelter,
an older dog-collar for his adornment and six yards of "flex" for his
restraint. I further appointed the runner--a youth from Huddersfield,
nicknamed "Isinglass," in playful sarcastic comment on his speed--second
in command. He was to feed, groom and exercise Hyldebrand. I would
inspect Hyldebrand twice a week.
Hyldebrand rose fast in village popularity. One forgot that his parents
had been shot for cattle maiming, body snatching, breaking into
granaries and defying the gendarmerie on the public roads. But Hyldy was
all docility. He ate his way through the grant, the office stationery,
and the central tin dump with the most disarming _naïvété_. He was the
spoilt darling of every mess. The reflected glory which Isinglass and
myself enjoyed was positively embarrassing.
But as the summer advanced so did Hyldebrand. He became (to quote his
keeper) a "battle pig," with the head of a pantomime dragon,
fore-quarters of a bison, the hind-legs of a deer and a back like an
heraldic scrubbing-brush. In March I had inspected him as he sat upon my
knee. In June I shook hands with him as he strained at his tether. In
mid-September we nodded to each other from opposite sides of a barbed
wire fence. Yet Isinglass retained the most complete mastery of his
ferocious-looking protégé, and beneath his skilful massage Hyldebrand
would throw himself upon the ground and guggle in a porcine ecstacy.
One sunny afternoon, when there had come upon the little village street
the inevitable hush which preceded Hyldebrand's hour for exercise, I
espied the village cripple making for his home with the celerity of an A
1 man. He glared reproachfully at me, and, with an exclamation of
"_Sacré sanglier!_" vanished in the open doorway of the local
boulangerie, that being nearer than his cottage. Then came Hyldebrand,
froth on his snout and murder in his little eyes, and after him
Isinglass more than living up to his equine namesake. I joined him, and,
following Hyldy in a cloud of dust, the runner informed me between gasps
that it was "along of burning his snout-raking for a bully-beef tin in
the insinuator."
A band outside B Mess was nearing the climax of GRIEG'S "Peer Gynt"
suite. Hyldebrand just failed to perpetrate the time-worn gag of jumping
through the big drum, but he contrived to make that final crashing chord
sound like the last sneeze of a giant dying of hay-fever. The rest the
crowd saw through a film of dust. Hyldebrand headed for the turning by
the school, reached it as the gates opened to release young France, and
comedy would have turned to tragedy but for the point duty M.P. and his
revolver.
There was a note and a parcel for me a day or so after. The note, which
was addressed to and had been opened by the T.M., stated that Hyldebrand
was being sent for by the Heatherdale Hussars on the morrow. Outside the
parcel was scrawled, above the initials of the G.H.Q. officers' cook, a
friend of mine, "It's top hole--try it with a drop of sauce." Inside was
a cold pork chop!
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[Illustration: THE NEW LOAF.