What do ye want with him?"

The man threw back his head and laughed. "Why, to eat him, of course. We
always have roast pig for dinner the day after the fair."

Flea dug her toe into the dust and flung up a cloud of it, as her face
drew into a sulky frown. "Well," she drawled, "ye don't hog down this
'un! He's mine!"

"But the money, Boy! Don't you want the money?"

Her heart was beating so fast that she dared not lift her eyes again to
his. Then a lady spoke in a soft voice, and Flea glanced at her.

"This is Mr. Horace Shellington," she said, "and if he did not have the
pig he would be disappointed. You'll let him buy it, won't you?"

Flea looked into the questioning face of her prince, the face of her
dreams, looked again into his smiling eyes, and stood hesitant. Her
thoughts flew fast. She remembered the terrified pig, how she had pitied
him, and how much he wanted to live, to frisk in the sunshine. She
thought of the cruel knife that would reach the tiny heart tapping
against her own, and threw back her head in defiance.

"Ye may have e't all the greased pigs in this here country," she said to
Shellington; "but ye don't eat this 'un! Ye see, this 'un's mine, and
he's goin' to live, eat, and be happy, that's all!" Although she had
spoken emphatically, her eyes dropped again before the keen gaze bent
upon her. To relieve her embarrassment, she turned and shouted, "Flukey,
Flukey, come along! Where's Snatchet?"

So great had been Flea's excitement at the catching of the pig that she
had given no heed to the dog. Flukey had handed the little fellow to
her, and she had let him go.

Suddenly an appalling spectacle rose before her. On an elevated spot, a
few feet from the greased pole, Snatchet stood poised in view of
hundreds of curious eyes. His short stubby tail had straightened out
like a stick. His nose was lowered almost to the ground. Each yellow
hair on his scarred back had risen separate and apart from one another,
while his beady eyes glistened greedily. Directly in front of him,
staring back with feathers ruffled and drooping wings, was a little
brown hen, escaped from her coop. She was eying Snatchet impudently,
daring him to approach her by perking her wee head saucily first on one
side and then on the other. Snatchet, pressed on by hunger beating at
his lean sides, slid rigidly a pace nearer. A cry went up from a
childish voice.

"He'll kill my Queen Bess! Father--Oh! Father!"

Flukey's voice, c