"Little boy," it said, "I've purchased every year the greased pig of the youngster who caught him. May I buy him of you? I'll give you another gold-piece for him."
Words stuck in Flea's throat, and she only clung closer to the suckling. At last she murmured, "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.