“I’m so hungry,” cried Robin.  “Show me where to get something, and I’ll give you my cap and feather.”

“I wants the jacket too,” said the boy.

“I tell you I can’t give you that,” cried Robin.

“Then I means to take it.”

Robin shrank away, and the boy turned upon him fiercely.

“None of that,” he cried.  “See this here stick?  If you was to try to run away I should send it spinning after you, and it would break your legs and knock you down, and I could send the tigs after you, and they’d soon bring you back.”

Robin drew a deep breath; he felt hot, and his hands clenched as he longed to strike out at his tyrant.  But the young swineherd was big and strong, and the little fellow knew that he could do next to nothing against such an enemy.

Then there was a pause.  Robin stood, hot, excited, and panting; the herd-boy threw himself down on his chest, rested his chin upon his hands, as he stared fiercely at Robin, and kicked his feet up and down; while the pigs roamed here and there, nuzzling the fallen acorns out from the bracken, and crunching them up loudly.

Robin wanted to run, and he did not want to run, and all at the same time, for his strongest desire just then was to fight his tyrant; and for some minutes neither spoke.

At last the big boy said, in a low, growling way: 

“Now then, are you going to give me them things?”

“No,” said Robin, through his set teeth; and again there was silence.

“You give ’em to me, and I’ll show you the way to where they live and they’ll give you roast deer and roast pig p’raps, for two of ourn’s gone.  Master says he counted ’em, and they aren’t all there, and he wales me with a strap because I let them take the pigs, and next time he counts ’em there’s more than there was before, but he’s whipped me all the same.  You give me them things, and I’ll take you where you’ll get lots to eat, and milk and eggs and apples.  D’yer hear?”

“I won’t give them to you.  I can’t—­I mustn’t,” cried Robin passionately.

The boy said nothing, but looked away at his pigs, two of which were fighting.

“Ah, would you?” he cried; and he made believe to rush at them with his big hook-handled stick.

Robin was thrown off his guard, and before he was aware of it the boy made a side leap and, dropping his stick, seized him, threw him over on his back, and sat astride upon his chest.

“Now won’t you give em to me?” cried the herd-boy; and he whipped off the cap and threw it to a little distance, with the result that half a dozen pigs rushed at it; and as he made a brave fight to get rid of his enemy, the last that Robin saw of his velvet cap and plume was that one black pig tore out the feather, while another was champing the velvet in his mouth.

It was a brave fight, but all in vain, and a few minutes later the boy was standing triumphantly over poor Robin, with the gay jerkin rolled up under his arm; and the little fellow struggled to his feet in his trunk hose and white linen shirt, hot, angry, and torn, and wishing with all his might that he were as big and strong as the tyrant who had mastered him.