A murmur followed her words, and the tears dried in the blue eyes looking up at her.

“Here little ’un, chuck it in yer pocket,” said Flea, straightening her shoulders, “and it’ll buy another hen.”

So the jury which had sat for a moment upon the precious life of Snatchet brought in a verdict of “not guilty,” and the squatter children turned to find something to eat for the quartet of empty stomachs.  Out of sight of Dryden, they sat down beside the road, and Flea looked the pig over.

“Ye has to tie a piece of cord to his leg, Kid,” cautioned Flukey; “’cause he’ll get away if ye don’t.  Ain’t he fine?”

“The finest pig in this here world,” responded Flea.  “Ye ain’t got no rag what’ll wipe off some of this grease, have ye, Fluke?”

“Nope; but ye can scrape it off with a stick or a rock.  Here, ye hold him tight while I dig at him.”

For about twenty minutes they busied themselves with cleaning the suckling, laughing at his wriggles and squeaks.

“What’ll we call him?” asked Flea.

“Squeaky,” said Flukey, “that’s what the man called out.”

“Aw, that ain’t nice enough for me!  I’ll call him Prince, and ye call him Squeaky—­Prince Squeaky,” she ended, knotting the cord Flukey had given her about the short hind leg of the animal.

“And we be rich,” she declared later, “’most five dollars, a pig, and Snatchet, and yer leg’s well.  It don’t hurt a bit, do it?”

“Nope, not now; but when I were at the top of that pole I got a damn good twist.  It’s better now.”

“Then let’s mog along,” said Flea, “’cause we can eat all we want, now we got money.”

CHAPTER TEN

For two weeks Flea and Flukey lived on the fat of the land.  The country afforded them haystacks, and the brooks, clear water.  The children were never happier than when Squeaky’s nose was hidden in a tin can of buttermilk, and the precious five dollars bought countless numbers of currant buns, sugar cakes, and penny bones for Snatchet.  Now Flukey lifted his head proudly and walked with the air of a boy on the road to fortune, and Flea kept at his side with the prince hugged close in her arms.  Through the long stretch of houseless roads Snatchet was allowed to rove at will, and Flukey relieved his sister of her burden.  By the third day out toward the promised land the two little animals had become firm friends, and the queer quartet walked on and on, as straight as the crow flies, through the valleys and over the hills, wading the creeks and ferrying the rivers, until they awoke one morning without money or breakfast.  The warm hay at night, much sunshine, and the absence of rain had reduced the swollen joint in Flukey’s knee to normal size; but that day, as they trudged along, Flea noticed that he limped more than at any time during their journey from Tompkins County.  Even now, with hunger staring wolf-eyed at them, there was no desire to return to Ithaca, no thought of renewing their life in the squatter’s settlement; for, unknown to themselves, they were being swept on by a common destiny.