"My mind," said I, "like BERT COOTE'S, is made up. He is my pig and I
may do what I like with him. There is no law against one losing one's
pig. Besides, he is ruining me."
At 10 P.M. we set out _en famille_. It was July. I remember the date
rather particularly because it was just then that they ceased to
ration bacon altogether. At 10.30 the pig was safely lost. At 11 the
front-door closed upon us. At 11.1 little Willy Perkins, the butcher's
son, arrived with the pig and claimed something for restoring lost
property.
A man with a position to keep up simply can't afford to be caught in
the act of feloniously making away with pigs in war-time; besides
DORA was still alive and she might have something to say; so I had to
pretend how pleased I was, and I gave the scamp half-a-crown.
Now I know Perkins and Son well enough to realise that if the animal
had been worth more than half-a-crown they would have allowed me to
lose my pig free of charge. So I made another resolution. It was
pretty drastic, but in a crisis like this severe measures are often
the best. In short, it was murder I contemplated--nothing less.
I went to work carefully. I let four months slip by to allay any
possible suspicion. I paid my weekly cheque without being asked;
without a murmur I parted daily with my swill; in fact I comported
myself as though the unholy plot maturing in my breast was
nonexistent.
At length the night arrived. I took down my long magazine Lee Enfield
and my cartridge (I am not a Volunteer for nothing) and crept to the
Patriot Pig H.Q.
The once-crowded sty lay dark and still. I entered and switched on my
torch: it shone on the loathsome features that I knew so well. He was
all alone, so there could be no mistake. His head was as large
as ever, but his body seemed scarcely visible. I weighed him; he
registered fourteen pounds.:
I will not harrow you, my reader, with details. Suffice it to say my
nerve was sure, my eye true and my hand steady. I killed that pig with
a single shot and went home to bed.
The Doctor arrived next morning while I was shaving. He was white with
rage. He said:
"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.
* * * * *