Flea pinched Flukey’s arm.  “Be yer knee so twisted that ye can’t try, Flukey?”

“Nope, my rheumatiz ain’t hurtin’ me now.”

“Then shinny up it, Fluke—­ye can climb it!  Get along there!”

She took the dog from his arms, and the boy went forward when the call came for another aspirant.

“I’m goin’ to get that there bill!” said Flukey, shutting his teeth firmly.

He advanced and spoke in an undertone to a man, who, with a grin, shouted out the name, “Mr. F. Cronk.”

The dignity of the prefix made Flukey spit upon his hands before he started to climb the pole.  Flea came closer and stood almost breathless.  Her parted lips showed small, even, white teeth, her eyes glistened, and flashes of red blood crimsoned her face.  One suspender slipping from her shoulder, the vicious dog in her arms, the beautiful upturned face, was as interesting a spectacle as the onlookers had ever seen.  It was with breathless interest that she watched her brother laboriously ascend the pole.

Flukey was indeed making a masterful climb.  But at last he halted; and then, a moment later, he climbed desperately.  The girl on the ground saw him falter, and knew that he was becoming faint-hearted.  To encourage him, she lifted a voice broken by emotion and shouted: 

“Go it, Fluke, go it!...  Aw! damn it, he slid!...  Go it, ole feller!  Git there, git there!  Ye’re almost there, Fluke—­git it!  It’s a dinner—­it’s a bone for Snatchet, and we’ll eat!...  Damn it! he slid again!...  Aw! hell!”

Flukey gained the space he had lost in his last slide.  Halfway up, he began again, the men cheering and the women waving handkerchiefs.  But the boy had heard only the words from the little figure under the pole.  The five dollars did mean a good dinner, and a bone for lean Snatchet.  Up, up, and still up, until his fingers grasped the pole very near the top.

There he rested for breath.  For a few seconds his head drooped on his shoulders, and absolute quiet reigned below.  His slender legs encircled the pole, and finally, with a painful effort, he lifted out the pin stuck in the bill, grasped the money in his fingers, and instantly slid to the ground.  Laughs and cheers roared into the air.  Flea had backed away from the pole, still holding the small dog; but, before she could get to Flukey, other boys were surrounding him, asking how he had done it.

* * * * *

A sudden shouting came from hundreds of throats.  One voice raised above the clamor: 

“Anyone catching the greased pig, Squeaky, can have him.  He’s a fine roaster!  After him, Boys!”

Over a knoll, his tiny nose swaying in the air, and four short legs kicking the dust into clouds, skurried a small pig, coated from head to tail with lard.  Deftly he slipped for his life through many youthful hands stretched out to grasp him, and time and again he wriggled from under a small boy crouched to stop his progress.  He passed the danger-mark, and in the new stretch of ground, where the spectators were standing, discerned a chance to escape.