AS we approached our house, Mr. Millington, who was in his garage, and Mr. Rolfs, who was on his porch, came to meet us. They looked at the carriage with suspicion, but I assumed a careless, innocent look, well calculated to deceive them. They came down to the carriage, and laid their hands on it, and glanced into it. Mr. Rolfs, with ill-assumed absent-mindedness, lifted the leather cover of the rear of the carriage box and glanced in. I was glad we had put Chesterfield Whiting under the seat.

“Shall I take in the—” Isobel began, but I cut her words short.

“No, I will take in your wraps,” I said meaningly, and then added: “Well, good night, Millington; good night, Rolfs.”

They did not take the hint. They walked beside the carriage as I drove to the stable, and although Mr. Prawley was able to do the work alone, and I made some excuse to help him, Rolfs and Millington seemed eager to help us.

“I worked two hours over my automobile,” said Millington, “and she is knocking again as usual. To-morrow, I propose you and I and our wives will take a little pig up to Port Lafayette—”

“Pig?” I said. “What do you mean by pig, Millington.”

“Did I say pig?” said Millington in great confusion. “I meant to say: 'take a little spin.'”

“John will think you think he is thinking of keeping a pig,” said Rolfs accusingly to Millington. “He will think you are doubting his sanity. John would no more keep a pig on this place—”

“Certainly not!” I cried. “The idea! Keep a pig!”

“Well, you know,” said Millington, and then stopped. “What is that squeak?” he asked.

I knew only too well what that squeak was. It was Chesterfield.

“That?” I said carelessly. “Oh, that is nothing. My carriage springs need oiling. Mr. Prawley, don't forget to oil the carriage springs to-morrow.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Prawley, “but if I might suggest feeding the—”

“Ahem!” I said loudly. “Oil the springs, Prawley. To-morrow.”

“When I said 'take a little pig,'” said Millington, “I meant—”

“Millington,” I said, “I forgive you! Men will make mistakes—slip of the tongue—Well, good night!”

“See here,” said Millington, “I know you feel some resentment.”

“No I don't! Good night!” I said angrily.

“Yes you do!” said Millington. “And I'll tell you why. You remember you mentioned, some time ago, that you thought you would keep a pig? Personally I would be delighted to have you keep a pig or even a lot of pigs. You could make an infernal stock yard of your place if you wanted to. I love pigs. If I could have my way I would have a pig pen immediately under my window, so that when I awakened in the morning I could glance down at the happy, contented creatures. Nothing starts the day so well as to see contented creatures, and there is nothing so contented as a pig. If I could have my own way I would beg you to build your pig pen immediately under my window. But I am not a selfish man.”

“I know you are not, Millington,” I said; “but I am not considering the purchase of a pig. Good night!”

“Of course you are not,” said Rolfs, “and I only want to say that if you do keep a pig you can gratify Millington, for every law of pig culture demands that you build your pig house against the western fence, and not against my fence. The pig is a delicate creature, and his pen should be where the invigorating rays of the morning sun can strike him. Now my fence is the eastern fence—”

“And this man Rolfs pretends to be your friend!” exclaimed Millington sneeringly.

“Why every one knows that unless a pig has sweet dreams he becomes moody and listless, and loses interest in life. A pig's place of residence should always be where the last rays of the sun can strike him—against the eastern fence. You want to put that pen against Rolf's fence.”

At this Mr. Rolfs became greatly agitated. He glared at Mr. Millington, and shook his fist at me.

“You'll put no pig pen on my side of your yard!” he said threateningly.

“And you keep your pig pen away from my fence,” said Mr. Millington hotly. “I am your friend, and I start to Port Lafayette with you day after day—”

“Millington,” said Rolfs, calming himself, “we will not have a pig in this neighbourhood at all. If this fellow attempts to keep a pig we will have the law on him. That is what we will do!”

“That is what we will do, Rolfs,” said Millington, “at the first evidence of a pig we will set the police on him. We won't stand it!” “Gentlemen,” I said calmly, “I have no intention of keeping a pig. Such an idea never entered my mind. And as for you, Millington, I know you now. You have shown yourself as you are. Never again, Millington, shall I start to Port Lafayette in your automobile. That is final! Good night, gentlemen!”

Millington and Rolfs went off arm in arm, and when they were out of sight I hurriedly rescued Chesterfield Whiting, in all his wrappings, from under the seat, and rushed him into the house. I let Mr. Prawley continue to unharness the horse. I told Isobel what my neighbours had said. Chesterfield, in his gags, lay at my feet.

“To-morrow, Isobel,” I said, “we must get rid of Chesterfield Whiting. In the meantime we must keep him a dark secret. We must keep him silent, or we are lost.”

Suddenly the dust-robe bundle at our feet began to palpitate violently. It bounced like a fish out of water, and I made a grab for it. Chesterfield screamed. I threw myself hastily upon him and wrapped him in my arms and muzzled the bunch of veil that was his nose with my hand. As I stood erect again I chanced to glance out of the window, and I saw Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington in deep conversation with a policeman. From time to time they turned and glanced at my house. Motioning Isobel to follow me, I bore Chesterfield to the attic. We closed the windows of the trunk room in the attic, and locked the door. Then I opened a trunk, unwrapped Chesterfield and dropped him into the trunk, and shut the lid. And sat on it.

Isobel peeked out of the window, and told me that the policeman and Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington were staring at our attic windows.

An ordinary pig would have been glad to be unwrapped and dropped into a cozy, roomy trunk, but Chesterfield was no ordinary pig. He was a weeper. First he wailed for his lost home. Then he screamed for his mother. Then he shrieked for each of his dear little brothers and sisters individually. Then he opened his lungs and squealed for all of them at once, and the policeman took out his note-book and wrote down the number of our house. I realized then that keeping a pig in the suburbs is attended by difficulties. The theory of keeping your pigs cheerful and happy is all right in a book, but it is hard to live up to when the pig is homesick and a policeman with a note-book is on your front walk. It is well enough for an agricultural writer to sit in his hall bedroom in the city and scribble about uplifting the pig, and spiritualizing it, and bathing it, but did he ever try to soothe a homesick pig in an attic? Did he ever try to bathe a pig in a trunk? Did he ever try to scatter sunshine in a pig's life when the pig has firmly made up its mind to mourn? Did he ever try to reason with the pig when the pig is full of squeal, and has no desire in life but to pour forth eons and leagues of it?

When a pig feels like that, it is useless to read it chapters from Hamilton Wright Mabie's “Essays on Nature and Culture.” Occasionally I opened the lid of the trunk and looked in to assure myself that there was but one pig, and not three or four. When a pig reaches the stage where its eyes become set and stary, and it gives forth long, soul-piercing wails, it does not want a bath. It does not want sunshine, nor Bible classes, nor uplift, nor simple life. It wants food.

The more I studied Chesterfield the more certain I became that if a man wants to win the affection of a pig he can best do so, not by lifting the pig over the edge of a porcelain bath tub every few hours to give it a rub-down, but by standing by with a couple of tons of feed and shovelling it down the pig with a scoop-shovel. The pig's squawker and its swallower are one and the same instrument, and the only way to keep the squawker quiet is to keep the swallower plugged with food. In its idle hours the pig may long for sweetness and light, but it wants meals at all hours of the day and night.

We found that Chesterfield preferred salted almonds to affection. He began eating salted almonds immediately after we had fed him everything else in the house that was edible, and by feeding him one almond at a time Isobel was able to keep him interested. By this means she kept his mind off his sorrows. He could not weep and chew.

Time and again, as the hours slipped by, Isobel tested Chesterfield, to see if he was satisfied, but at each test his sorrow broke forth afresh. I never knew a pig was so full of sorrows. I would not have believed that so small a pig, so full of salted almonds, could have room for one small sorrow. And yet, the moment Isobel ceased feeding him, he would run around inside the trunk, nosing it and wailing for—I don't know what he was wailing for!

About midnight, when Isobel was worn out, I took her place and let her go to bed. I told her I would feed salted almonds until three, and then call her, and she could feed until six, while I got a little sleep. About two o'clock in the morning I gave Chesterfield his eighteenth drink of water, and when I offered him another salted almond he seemed languid. He eyed it covetously, opened his mouth, sighed once, and fell over sideways. His regular breathing told me he had fallen into a deep, sweet sleep, and I removed my shoes and stole softly downstairs.

“He has fallen asleep,” I told Isobel, “and I think he will probably take a good nap. He has had a hard day. I left him quite comfortable and—”

“Drink! Almonds! Mother! I'm lone-lee-ee-wee-wee-wee!” wailed Chesterfield at that instant, and I hurried up to the attic. I threw open the lid of the trunk, and found him standing on his feet. He was still asleep, his white-lashed eyes firmly closed in slumber, but his squealer was working as if he were awake, and when I fed him a salted almond he munched and swallowed it without awakening, and squealed for another. He was so sound asleep that he could not even reach out for the almonds; I had to poke them into his mouth. When I missed his mouth and dropped the almond on the floor of the trunk he squealed. At last he lay down comfortably and slept and ate almonds.

I had one great fear. I was running out of almonds. So I tried him with wads of newspaper, and found they satisfied him quite as well. I fed him a complete Sunday newspaper, including the coloured supplement and the “want” advertisements, before sunrise. I imagine the newspaper was not very nourishing, for Chesterfield awakened at sunrise with a tremendous appetite, and let us know, plainly, that he was starving to death. I fed him my breakfast and Isobel's while Mr. Prawley was digging up what remained in our vegetable garden, and when Chesterfield had eaten that I gagged him with the pink veil, and stuffed his head in the sleeve of my rain coat once more.

“Isobel,” I said, “the time has at last come when we must cease keeping pigs. I love to be surrounded by affection, but I believe we have kept this pig long enough. An attic is no place in which to run a modern swine industry. It is too far from the nearest bath tub. Bathe him now, if you would bathe him at all, for he is going back to the farm.”

“If we packed him in a trunk,” said Isobel thoughtfully, paying no attention to the bath suggestion, “we might send him back to the farmer by express, and Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington would never know we had—”

“That is a good idea,” I said, “except that we do not know the name of the farmer, and that the Interurban does not deliver express parcels twelve miles from Westcote—”

“We might pack him in a suit case,” suggested Isobel. “If we packed him in the suit case and pretended we were going on a picnic and that the suit case was our lunch—I suppose Chesterfield will be some one's lunch some day?”

“Fine!” I said, and we began pretending we were going on a picnic. I packed Chesterfield Whiting in the suit case, and then went down and had Mr. Prawley harness the horse. I noticed that the policeman was still hanging near our house, and that Mr. Millington was eyeing me from his porch.

“Ah! Millington!” I called cheerfully. “Fine day for a picnic! Isobel and I are just off for one.”

He came running over immediately. “Admirable!” he cried. “I was just coming over to suggest that very thing. The automobile is running beautifully this morning, and we four can run up to Port Lafayette—”

Port Lafayette!

“Millington,” I said, assuming an angry tone, “last evening you insulted me, and you seem to think I will forgive you thus easily. No indeed! I am not that sort of man, Millington. I will not take Isobel to Port Lafayette, for I have promised to let you take us there, but we will go on this picnic behind Bob. And if you see Rolfs just tell him what a silly ass he made of himself, thinking I would be crazy enough to keep a pig. I may be some kinds of a fool, Millington, but I am not that kind!”

I think Millington blushed. He should have blushed. Saying I would keep a pig, indeed!

When I returned for Isobel and carried the suit case downstairs I felt as light-hearted as a boy. Chesterfield was so well muzzled and gagged that he made no sound whatever, and when I stepped from my door, with Isobel by my side, I was pleased to see Rolfs stepping from his front door, and I hailed him. He stopped, but he looked annoyed.

“If you want to say anything ugly, say it quick,” he said, “for I'm in a rush to catch a train, and if I just catch it, I can just catch the ferry, to catch a train for Chicago. I can't stop now—”

“Get in the buggy,” I said heartily, “we will drive you to the station. Isobel and I are going on a little picnic. Put your suit case in the back, with ours. We always carry our lunch in a suit case when we go picnicing. Hop in!”

“Well, it is kind of you,” said Rolfs rather sheepishly. “I hope you did not feel hurt by what I said last night about pigs. I feel rather strongly about pigs.”

“Rolfs,” I said as I gathered up the reins, “I am not a man to nurse hard feelings, but I must say—”

“Look here!” said Rolfs, “I did not get into this buggy to listen to—”

“You can get out again,” I said inhospitably, “any time you do not like straight, honest talk. I mean nothing unneighbourly but when a man accuses—”

Without another word Rolfs jumped out, and grabbing his suit case, walked haughtily away. I could not forbear giving him a little dig.

“Bon voyage, Rolfs,” I called. “Don't get pigs on the brain to-night again!” and Isobel and I laughed as we drove away.

When the farmer saw us drive into his yard he seemed surprised, but he was nice about it. He said he was willing to pay us back half what we had paid him for Chesterfield Whiting, but we would not hear of it.

“No,” I said firmly, “we have had our money's worth of pig!”

Then I opened the suit case.

It contained, among other things, a suit of pajamas, a tooth brush, four shirts, six pair of socks, underwear, handkerchiefs, a book entitled “The Complete Rights of the Citizen,” and twelve collars. But no pig.

All the articles were of good quality, and most had Rolf's initials on them. I must say the suit case contained a nice assortment of haberdashery. But no pig. Not that I blamed Rolfs for not packing a pig in his suit case, for he was going to Chicago where there are stock yards full of pigs, if he should happen to want one. And a suit case is no place for a pig, anyway. Imagine the feelings of a man in a sleeping car when he has buckled the curtains of his berth around him, and has partly undressed behind them. And then imagine him reaching down and opening his suit case, expecting to find a suit of pajamas, and finding, instead, a pig. Imagine him when the pig—a Chesterfield Whiting pig—springs lightly forth and gives voice to his homesickness!