“We’d like to know about it, Billy,” suggested Mrs. Comstock, struggling with her face.

“Cos she couldn’t go to the city, she’s most worked herself to death.  She’s done all the dirty, hard jobs she could find.  She’s fixing her grape juice now.”

“Sure!” cried Mrs. Comstock.  “When a woman is disappointed she always works like a dog to gain sympathy!”

“Well, Uncle Wesley and I are sympathizing all we know how, without her working so.  I’ve squeezed until I almost busted to get the juice out from the seeds and skins.  That’s the hard part.  Now, she has to strain it through white flannel and seal it in bottles, and it’s good for sick folks.  Most wish I’d get sick myself, so I could have a glass.  It’s so good!”

Elnora glanced swiftly at her mother.

“I worked so hard,” continued Billy, “that she said if I would throw the leavings in the woods, then I could come after you to see about the bugs.  Do you want to go?”

“We will all go,” said Mrs. Comstock.  “I am mightily interested in those bugs myself.”

From afar commotion could be seen at the Sinton home.  Wesley and Margaret were running around wildly and peculiar sounds filled the air.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Philip, hurrying to Wesley.

“Cholera!” groaned Sinton.  “My hogs are dying like flies.”

Margaret was softly crying.  “Wesley, can’t I fix something hot?  Can’t we do anything?  It means several hundred dollars and our winter meat.”

“I never saw stock taken so suddenly and so hard,” said Wesley.  “I have ’phoned for the veterinary to come as soon as he can get here.”

All of them hurried to the feeding pen into which the pigs seemed to be gathering from the woods.  Among the common stock were big white beasts of pedigree which were Wesley’s pride at county fairs.  Several of these rolled on their backs, pawing the air feebly and emitting little squeaks.  A huge Berkshire sat on his haunches, slowly shaking his head, the water dropping from his eyes, until he, too, rolled over with faint grunts.  A pair crossing the yard on wavering legs collided, and attacked each other in anger, only to fall, so weak they scarcely could squeal.  A fine snowy Plymouth Rock rooster, after several attempts, flew to the fence, balanced with great effort, wildly flapped his wings and started a guttural crow, but fell sprawling among the pigs, too helpless to stand.

“Did you ever see such a dreadful sight?” sobbed Margaret.

Billy climbed on the fence, took one long look and turned an astounded face to Wesley.

“Why them pigs is drunk!” he cried.  “They act just like my pa!”

Wesley turned to Margaret.

“Where did you put the leavings from that grape juice?” he demanded.

“I sent Billy to throw it in the woods.”

“Billy——­” began Wesley.

“Threw it just where she told me to,” cried Billy.  “But some of the pigs came by there coming into the pen, and some were close in the fence corners.”