as if he had been fed on wind. One man bid a
dollar for him, and another bid two, and there was a good deal of fun
made about it; but Ben's father had very quietly slipped down from the
wagon, and taken a careful look at the lame horse.

For all that, Ben was a little surprised when the auctioneer's hammer
fell, and he shouted, "Sold! for five dollars, to--What's your name,
mister?"

"Ben Whittlesey."

Ben's father said that. But it wasn't his name. His name was Robert.

"Ben," said his father, when he came back to the wagon, "hand me that
five-dollar bill. If I can get that horse home, I'll cure him in a
fortnight. There's no great thing the matter with him."

There was trouble enough in making the poor lame animal limp so many
miles, and they got home after dark; but that was just as well, for
nobody saw the new horse, or had a chance to laugh at him or his owner.

"It's the pig's horse," said Ben.

Ben's father was as good as his word about curing the lameness, and
plenty of oats and hay, and no work, and good care, did the rest. The
man who sold the gray for five dollars would not have known him at the
end of two weeks.

It was just about two weeks after that that Ben's father drove the
pig's horse to town and back in a buggy, and with a nice new harness on.
He stopped at the blacksmith's shop on his way home, and Mr. Corrigan,
the blacksmith, seemed to take a great fancy to the gray.

"Just the nag I want, Mr. Whittlesey; only I've no ready cash to pay for
him."

"I don't sell on credit, you know," said Mr. Whittlesey. "Anything to
trade?"

"Nothing that I know of. Unless you care to take that vacant lot of
mine, next the tavern. Tisn't doing me any good. I had to take it for a
debt, and I've paid taxes for it these three years."

"Will you swap even?"

"Yes, I might as well."

There was more talk, of course, before the trade was finished, but it
came out all right in the end. Before the next day at noon Mr. Corrigan
owned the pig's horse; but the deed of the town lot was made out in the
name of Ben Whittlesey, and not of the pig.

"Father," said Ben, at the tea table, "mayn't I let that pig out into
the road every day?"

"No, Ben; all the pigs in the village can't root up another cent like
that."

"He did it."

"Well, Ben, he did and he didn't. Do you know how he got the town lot
for you?"

"Why, yes. Don't I?"

"Not quite. You saw him turn up the cent, and knew what to do with it;
he