to tie a piece of cord to his leg, Kid," cautioned Flukey;
"'cause he'll get away if ye don't. Ain't he fine?"

"The finest pig in this here world," responded Flea. "Ye ain't got no
rag what'll wipe off some of this grease, have ye, Fluke?"

"Nope; but ye can scrape it off with a stick or a rock. Here, ye hold
him tight while I dig at him."

For about twenty minutes they busied themselves with cleaning the
suckling, laughing at his wriggles and squeaks.

"What'll we call him?" asked Flea.

"Squeaky," said Flukey, "that's what the man called out."

"Aw, that ain't nice enough for me! I'll call him Prince, and ye call
him Squeaky--Prince Squeaky," she ended, knotting the cord Flukey had
given her about the short hind leg of the animal.

"And we be rich," she declared later, "'most five dollars, a pig, and
Snatchet, and yer leg's well. It don't hurt a bit, do it?"

"Nope, not now; but when I were at the top of that pole I got a damn
good twist. It's better now."

"Then let's mog along," said Flea, "'cause we can eat all we want, now
we got money."

CHAPTER TEN

For two weeks Flea and Flukey lived on the fat of the land. The country
afforded them haystacks, and the brooks, clear water. The children were
never happier than when Squeaky's nose was hidden in a tin can of
buttermilk, and the precious five dollars bought countless numbers of
currant buns, sugar cakes, and penny bones for Snatchet. Now Flukey
lifted his head proudly and walked with the air of a boy on the road to
fortune, and Flea kept at his side with the prince hugged close in her
arms. Through the long stretch of houseless roads Snatchet was allowed
to rove at will, and Flukey relieved his sister of her burden. By the
third day out toward the promised land the two little animals had become
firm friends, and the queer quartet walked on and on, as straight as the
crow flies, through the valleys and over the hills, wading the creeks
and ferrying the rivers, until they awoke one morning without money or
breakfast. The warm hay at night, much sunshine, and the absence of rain
had reduced the swollen joint in Flukey's knee to normal size; but that
day, as they trudged along, Flea noticed that he limped more than at any
time during their journey from Tompkins County. Even now, with hunger
staring wolf-eyed at them, there was no desire to return to Ithaca, no
thought of renewing their life in the squatter's settlement; for,
unknown to themselves,