Aunt Pettitoes gave to each a little bundle, and eight conversation
peppermints with appropriate moral sentiments in screws of paper. Then
they started.
Pigling Bland and Alexander trotted along steadily for a mile; at least
Pigling Bland did. Alexander made the road half as long again by
skipping from side to side. He danced about and pinched his brother,
singing--
"This pig went to market, this pig
stayed at home,
"This pig had a bit of meat--
let's see what they have given US for dinner, Pigling?"
Pigling Bland and Alexander sat down and untied their bundles. Alexander
gobbled up his dinner in no time; he had already eaten all his own
peppermints. "Give me one of yours, please, Pigling."
"But I wish to preserve them for emergencies," said Pigling Bland
doubtfully. Alexander went into squeals of laughter. Then he pricked
Pigling with the pin that had fastened his pig paper; and when Pigling
slapped him he dropped the pin, and tried to take Pigling's pin, and the
papers got mixed up. Pigling Bland reproved Alexander.
But presently they made it up again, and trotted away together,
singing--
"Tom, Tom, the piper's son, stole a pig
and away he ran!
"But all the tune that he could play,
was 'Over the hills and far away!'"
"What's that, young sirs? Stole a pig? Where are your licences?" said
the policeman. They had nearly run against him round a corner. Pigling
Bland pulled out his paper; Alexander, after fumbling, handed over
something scrumply--
"To 2 1/2 oz. conversation sweeties at three farthings"--"What's this?
This ain't a licence." Alexander's nose lengthened visibly, he had lost
it. "I had one, indeed I had, Mr. Policeman!"
"It's not likely they let you start without. I am passing the farm. You
may walk with me." "Can I come back too?" inquired Pigling Bland. "I see
no reason, young sir; your paper is all right." Pigling Bland did not
like going on alone, and it was beginning to rain. But it is unwise to
argue with the police; he gave his brother a peppermint, and watched him
out of sight.
To conclude the adventures of Alexander--the policeman sauntered up to
the house about tea time, followed by a damp subdued little pig. I
disposed of Alexander in the neighbourhood; he did fairly well when he
had settled down.
Pigling Bland went on alone dejectedly; he came to cross-roads and a
sign-post--"To Market Town, 5 miles," "Over the Hills, 4 miles," "To
Pettitoes Farm, 3 miles."
Pigling Bland was shocked, there was little hope of sleeping in Market
Town, and to-morrow was the hiring fair; it was deplorable to think how
much time had been wasted by the frivolity of Alexander.
He glanced wistfully along the road towards the hills, and then set off
walking obediently the other way, buttoning up his coat against the
rain. He had never wanted to go; and the idea of standing all by himself
in a crowded market, to be stared at, pushed, and hired by some big
strange farmer was very disagreeable--
"I wish I could have a little garden and grow potatoes," said Pigling
Bland.
He put his cold hand in his pocket and felt his paper, he put his other
hand in his other pocket and felt another paper--Alexander's! Pigling
squealed; then ran back frantically, hoping to overtake Alexander and
the policeman.
He took a wrong turn--several wrong turns, and was quite lost.
It grew dark, the wind whistled, the trees creaked and groaned.
Pigling Bland became frightened and cried "Wee, wee, wee! I can't find
my way home!"
After an hour's wandering he got out of the wood; the moon shone through
the clouds, and Pigling Bland saw a country that was new to him.
The road crossed a moor; below was a wide valley with a river twinkling
in the moonlight, and beyond, in misty distance, lay the hills.
He saw a small wooden hut, made his way to it, and crept inside--"I am
afraid it IS a hen house, but what can I do?" said Pigling Bland, wet
and cold and quite tired out.
"Bacon and eggs, bacon and eggs!" clucked a hen on a perch.
"Trap, trap, trap! cackle, cackle, cackle!" scolded the disturbed
cockerel. "To market, to market! jiggetty jig!" clucked a broody white
hen roosting next to him. Pigling Bland, much alarmed, determined to
leave at daybreak. In the meantime, he and the hens fell asleep.
In less than an hour they were all awakened. The owner, Mr. Peter Thomas
Piperson, came with a lantern and a hamper to catch six fowls to take to
market in the morning.
He grabbed the white hen roosting next to the cock; then his eye fell
upon Pigling Bland, squeezed up in a corner. He made a singular
remark--"Hallo, here's another!"--seized Pigling by the scruff of the
neck, and dropped him into the hamper. Then he dropped in five more
dirty, kicking, cackling hens upon the top of Pigling Bland.
The hamper containing six fowls and a young pig was no light weight; it
was taken down hill, unsteadily, with jerks. Pigling, although nearly
scratched to pieces, contrived to hide the papers and peppermints inside
his clothes.
At last the hamper was bumped down upon a kitchen floor, the lid was
opened, and Pigling was lifted out. He looked up, blinking, and saw an
offensively ugly elderly man, grinning from ear to ear.
"This one's come of himself, whatever," said Mr. Piperson, turning
Pigling's pockets inside out. He pushed the hamper into a corner, threw
a sack over it to keep the hens quiet, put a pot on the fire, and
unlaced his boots.
Pigling Bland drew forward a coppy stool, and sat on the edge of it,
shyly warming his hands. Mr. Piperson pulled off a boot and threw it
against the wainscot at the further end of the kitchen. There was a
smothered noise--"Shut up!" said Mr. Piperson. Pigling Bland warmed his
hands, and eyed him.
Mr. Piperson pulled off the other boot and flung it after the first,
there was again a curious noise--"Be quiet, will ye?" said Mr. Piperson.
Pigling Bland sat on the very edge of the coppy stool.
Mr. Piperson fetched meal from a chest and made porridge. It seemed to
Pigling that something at the further end of the kitchen was taking a
suppressed interest in the cooking, but he was too hungry to be troubled
by noises.
Mr. Piperson poured out three platefuls: for himself, for Pigling, and a
third--after glaring at Pigling--he put away with much scuffling, and
locked up. Pigling Bland ate his supper discreetly.
After supper Mr. Piperson consulted an almanac, and felt Pigling's ribs;
it was too late in the season for curing bacon, and he grudged his meal.
Besides, the hens had seen this pig.
He looked at the small remains of a flitch, and then looked undecidedly
at Pigling. "You may sleep on the rug," said Mr. Peter Thomas Piperson.
Pigling Bland slept like a top. In the morning Mr. Piperson made more
porridge; the weather was warmer. He looked to see how much meal was
left in the chest, and seemed dissatisfied--"You'll likely be moving on
again?" said he to Pigling Bland.
Before Pigling could reply, a neighbour, who was giving Mr. Piperson and
the hens a lift, whistled from the gate. Mr. Piperson hurried out with
the hamper, enjoining Pigling to shut the door behind him and not meddle
with nought; or "I'll come back and skin ye!" said Mr. Piperson.
It crossed Pigling's mind that if HE had asked for a lift, too, he might
still have been in time for market.
But he distrusted Peter Thomas.
After finishing breakfast at his leisure, Pigling had a look round the
cottage; everything was locked up. He found some potato peelings in a
bucket in the back kitchen. Pigling ate the peel, and washed up the
porridge plates in the bucket. He sang while he worked--
"Tom with his pipe made such a noise,
He called up all the girls and boys--
"And they all ran to hear him play
"'Over the hills and far away!'"