Part 5

“John,” he said with emotion, “you must excuse the feeling I showed. I was upset; I admit that I was overcome. I have owned this car four years, but in all that time, although I have started for Port Lafayette nearly every day, the car has never behaved as it has just behaved. I am a brave man, John, and I have never been afraid of a motor-car before, but when my car acts as this car has just acted, I _am_ afraid!”

I could see he was speaking the truth. His face was white about the mouth, and the tense lines showed he was nerving himself to do his duty. His voice trembled with the intensity of his self-control.

“John,” he said, taking my hand, “were you listening to the car?”

“No,” I had to admit. “No, Millington, I was not. I am ashamed to say it, but at the moment my mind was elsewhere. But,” I added, as if in self defence, “I am pretty sure I did not hear that knocking. I remember quite distinctly that I was not holding on to anything, and when the engine knocks--But what did you hear?”

A shiver of involuntary fear passed over Millington, and he lowered his voice to a frightened whisper. He glanced fearfully at the automobile.

“Nothing!” he said.

“What?” I cried. I could not hide my astonishment and, I am afraid, my disbelief. I would not, for the world, have had Millington think I thought he was prevaricating.

“Not a thing!” he repeated firmly. “Not a sound; not one bad symptom. Every--everything was running just as it should--just as they do in other automobiles.”

“Millington!” I said reproachfully.

“It is the truth!” he declared. “I swear it is the truth. Nothing seemed broken or about to break. I could not hear a sound of distress, or a symptom of disorder. Do you wonder I was overcome?”

“Millington,” I said seriously, “this is no light matter. I shall not accuse you of wilfully lying to me, but I know your automobile, and I cannot believe your automobile could proceed four hundred feet without making noises of internal disorder. It is evident to me that your hearing is growing weak; you may be threatened with deafness.” At this Millington seemed to cheer up considerably, for deafness was something he could understand. I proposed that we both get into the automobile again, and I, too, would listen. So we did. It was almost pathetic, it was most pathetic, to see the way Millington looked up into my face to see what verdict I would give when he started the motor.

My verdict was the very worst possible. We ran a block at low speed and I could hear no trouble. We ran a block at second speed, and no distressful noise did I hear. We ran two blocks at high speed, with no noise but the soft purring of motors and machinery. As Millington brought the automobile to a stop we looked at each other aghast. It was true, too true, _nothing was the matter with the automobile!_ It sparked, it ignited, it did everything a perfect automobile should do, just as a perfect automobile should do it. We got out and stared at the automobile silently.

“John,” said Millington at length, “you can easily see that I would not dare to start on a long trip like that to Port Lafayette when my automobile is acting in this unaccountable manner. It would be the most foolhardy recklessness. When this machine is running in an absolutely perfect manner, almost anything may be the matter with it. My own opinion is that a spell has been cast over it, and that it is bewitched.”

“I never knew it to come as far as this without stopping,” I said, “and to come this far without a single annoying noise makes me sure we should not attempt Port Lafayette to-day in this car. I shall take a little jaunt into the country behind my horse, and--”

“But don't go to Port Lafayette,” pleaded Millington. “Perhaps the automobile will be worse to-morrow. If she only develops some of the noises I am familiar with I shall not be afraid of her.”

One of the pleasures of being a suburbanite is that you can have a horse, and one of the pleasures of having a horse is that you keep off the main roads when you go driving, lest the automobiles get you and your horse into an awful mess. In driving up cross roads and down back roads you often run across things you would like to own--things the automobilist never sees--and Isobel and I had heard of a genuine Windsor chair of ancient lineage. I imagine the chair may have been almost as old as our horse. When Mr. Millington told me we could not go to Port Lafayette in his automobile that day, I hurried home and had Mr. Prawley harness Bob, and it was that day, when we were hunting the Windsor chair, that we ran across Chesterfield Whiting. Since Isobel had begun to like suburban life, she liked it as only a convert could, and the moment she saw Chesterfield Whiting she declared we must, by all means, keep a pig, and that Chesterfield Whiting was the pig we must keep.

Personally I was not much in favour of keeping a pig. I like things that pay dividends more frequently. I would not give much for a vegetable garden that had to be planted in the spring, worked all summer, tended all fall, and that only yielded its product in the winter. I prefer a garden that gives a vegetable once in awhile. Mine does that--it gives a vegetable every once in awhile. But a pig is a slow dividend payer.

I had noticed that Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington had never urged me to get a pig. Whenever I mentioned pig they mentioned various deadly and popular pig diseases. They had urged me to garden, and to keep chickens, and a horse, and a cow, and even an automobile--Millington urged me to keep his--but never a pig! I would not hint that Rolfs and Millington were selfish, or that they hoped to receive, now and then, milk from my cow, eggs from my chickens, or radishes from my garden, but a neighbour may profit in that way. On the other hand, the neighbour never profits from the suburban pig. I believe now, however, that Rolfs and Millington wished me to have things that would pay as they went.

But the moment Isobel saw the pig she said we must have him, because he was so cute. I had never thought of buying a pig because it was cute any more than I would have thought of buying a spring bonnet because it would fatten well for winter killing, but I yielded to Isobel.

Isobel said the idea of a pig being a nuisance was all nonsense, for she had been reading a magazine that was largely devoted to pigs and similar objects loved by country gentlemen, and that modern science proved beyond a doubt that the cleaner the pig the happier it was. She said a pig could not be too clean, and that if a pig was kept perfectly tidy no one could object to it.

“John,” she said, “there is no reason in the world why a pig should not be as clean as a new pin. The magazine says that if a pig is usually of a coarse, disgruntled nature, it is only because it is kept in coarse, brutalizing surroundings, and treated like a pig. If a pig is put amidst sweetness and light, the pig's nature will be sweet and light, and the pig will be sweet and light.”

I suggested gently that a pig, all things considered, was usually counted a failure if it was a light pig, and that experts had decided in favour of the pig that became heavy and soggy.

“What I mean,” said Isobel, “is light in spirit, not light in weight.”

We were looking over the fence of a farm when we held this little conversation, and Chesterfield Whiting was sporting on the clean, green clover, amidst his brothers, quite unconscious that he was so soon to be separated from them and lose their companionship. We had been attracted to him by a very hand-made sign that announced “Pigs for Sale.” Chesterfield was an extremely clean pig, and I must admit that I was rather taken by his looks myself, and when we drove around to the farm house I was surprised to learn how inexpensive a pig of tender years is, and I bought the pig. It is hard for me to deny Isobel these little pleasures.

On our way home Isobel and I talked of the future of Chesterfield, and we resolved that his life should be one grand, sweet song, as the poet says, and we had hardly started homeward than it appeared as if Chesterfield meant to attend to the song feature of his life himself. I never imagined a pig would feel his separation from his native place so keenly. He began to mourn in a keen treble key the moment the farmer grabbed him, uttering long, sharp wails of sorrow, and he kept it up. Automobiles with siren horns stopped in the road as we passed, and the chauffeurs took off their goggles and stared at us. It was very hard for Isobel to sit up straight in the carriage and look dignified and cool with Chesterfield wailing out his little soul sorrows under the seat.

As we neared the outskirts of Westcote, I began to keep an eye out for pig houses. It seemed to me that in these days of uplift the pig keepers of a suburb such as ours, peopled by intelligent men and women, would have the most modern improvements in pig dwellings, and I desired to make a few mental notes of them as I passed by. If I saw a very modern pig palace I meant to get out of the carriage and examine minutely the conveniences installed for the pig's comfort, so that I might reproduce them.

Isobel had mentioned casually that a pig dwelling with tile floors and walls and a shower bath would be quite sanitary, provided the tiles of the wall met the tiles of the floor in a concave curve, leaving no sharp angles; but as we journeyed into the village we saw no pig houses of this kind. In fact we saw no pig houses of any kind. At first this only annoyed me, then it surprised me, and by the time we were well into the village it worried me.

“Isobel,” I said, “I don't like this absence of pigs in this village. I am afraid there is something wrong here. I don't know what to make of it. It may be that hog-cholera is epidemic here the year 'round, just as San José scale kills all the apple trees. Have you seen a single pig?”

“Not one,” she admitted. “It looks as if there was a law against pigs.”

I stopped Bob, and looked at Isobel in amazement.

“Isobel!” I exclaimed. “You must be right! There must be a law against pigs! I do wish Chesterfield would stop yelling!”

“John,” said Isobel, “now that I come to think of it I do not believe I ever saw a pig in all Westcote. I wonder if we couldn't gag Chesterfield some way? If he howls like that every one will know we have a pig.”

I gagged the pig. I took Isobel's pink veil and wrapped it firmly around Chesterfield's nose, and brought the ends around his neck and tied them. Then I stuck his head into the sleeve of my rain coat and wrapped him in the coat, and tied it all in the linen dust robe. He was well gagged.

“Isobel,” I said, as I took up the reins again, “this is a serious matter. We will have to get rid of this pig, and we will have to do it quickly. I do not want to get into difficulties with the City of New York. Keeping a pig in the suburbs is evidently a crime, and it is a difficult crime to conceal. If I committed a murder and used ordinary precautions there might be no danger of detection, but a pig speaks for itself.”

“Chesterfield does,” said Isobel. “Do you suppose they will put you in jail?”

“_Me_ in jail?” I ejaculated. “He is your pig, Isobel.”

“John,” she said generously, “I give Chesterfield to you.”

“Isobel,” I said, “I cannot accept the sacrifice. He is your pig.”

“Well,” she said, “we will go to prison together.”

VIII. SALTED ALMONDS

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.”