Now I know Perkins and Son well enough to realise that if the animal had been worth more than half-a-crown they would have allowed me to lose my pig free of charge.  So I made another resolution.  It was pretty drastic, but in a crisis like this severe measures are often the best.  In short, it was murder I contemplated—­nothing less.

I went to work carefully.  I let four months slip by to allay any possible suspicion.  I paid my weekly cheque without being asked; without a murmur I parted daily with my swill; in fact I comported myself as though the unholy plot maturing in my breast was nonexistent.

At length the night arrived.  I took down my long magazine Lee Enfield and my cartridge (I am not a Volunteer for nothing) and crept to the Patriot Pig H.Q.

The once-crowded sty lay dark and still.  I entered and switched on my torch:  it shone on the loathsome features that I knew so well.  He was all alone, so there could be no mistake.  His head was as large as ever, but his body seemed scarcely visible.  I weighed him; he registered fourteen pounds.: 

I will not harrow you, my reader, with details.  Suffice it to say my nerve was sure, my eye true and my hand steady.  I killed that pig with a single shot and went home to bed.

The Doctor arrived next morning while I was shaving.  He was white with rage.  He said: 

“What the deuce do you mean by killing my pig?”

“Your pig ?” I smiled.  “No, my Pig!”

“Stuff and nonsense!” he spluttered. “Your pig died four months ago—­caught cold last July through being out so late at night and died next day.”

That roused me.  “Do you mean to tell me,” I asked coldly, “that I’ve been paying five pounds a week for the last four months for a dead pig?”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” replied the Doctor, “but no one asked you to, you know.”

Adding together all my expenses—­the weekly subscription for my pig; a similar sum paid to the Doctor for his; the value of my swill; the fine imposed (by DORA) for improper use of firearms; ditto (by the Magistrate) for shooting game without a licence; alleged damage to the P.P. premises and the remaining wits of their custodian; and finally, the bill from Mr. Perkins for a pound of pork purchased in July, and the account from Dr. Jones for professional attendance subsequent to consumption of same—­adding all these together I find that from first to last I disbursed L385 5s. 5-1/2d. on the patriot.

With pork at two shillings a pound my outlay should have produced a pig that weighed 1 ton 14-1/2 cwt.  Truly that would have been a very Hindenburg of a pig.  It was almost worth trying.

* * * * *

OUR EUPHEMISTS.

    “General Servant wanted, by middle of February; no small
    family."_—­Oxford Times_.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Proprietor (to assistant recently released from the Army). “WHY, WHATEVER MADE YOU OFFER TO SEND THE GOODS HOME FOR HER?  ANY FOOL COULD TELL YOU’VE BEEN OUT OF CIVILISATION DURING THE WAR.”]