“Come,” said I, looking from one to the other, “what might you be driving at?”

“Why, ye see, Peter,” answered John, coughing again, and scratching his chin harder than ever, “ye see, Peter, it aren’t nat’ral for a ‘uman bein’ to go a-vanishin’ away like this ’ere —­if ‘twere a man as you was a-talkin’ to—­”

“Which I doubts!” muttered Job.

“If ’twere a man, Peter, then I axes you—­where is that man?”

Before I could answer this pointed question, old Joel Amos hobbled up, who paused on the threshold to address some one over his shoulder.

“Come on, James, ’ere ’e be—­come for’ard, James, like a man.”

Thus adjured, another individual appeared:  a somewhat flaccid-looking individual, with colorless hair and eyes, one who seemed to exhale an air of apology, as it were, from the hobnailed boot upon the floor to the grimy forefinger that touched the strawlike hair in salutation.

“Marnin’, Peter!” said Old Amos, “this yere is Dutton.”

“How do you do?” said I, acknowledging the introduction, “and what can I do for Mr. Dutton?” The latter, instead of replying, took out a vivid belcher handkerchief, and apologetically mopped his face.

“Speak up, James Dutton,” said Old Amos.

“Lord!” exclaimed Dutton, “Lord!  I du be that ’ot!—­you speak for I, Amos, du.”

“Well,” began Old Amos, not ill-pleased, “this ’ere Dutton wants to ax ’ee a question, ’e du, Peter.”

“I shall be glad to answer it, if I can,” I returned.

“You ’ear that?—­well, ax your question, James Dutton,” commanded the old man.

“W’y, ye see, Amos,” began Dutton, positively reeking apology, “I du be that on-common ’ot—­you ax un.”

“W’y, then, Peter,” began Amos, with great unction, “it’s ’is pigs!”

“Pigs?” I exclaimed, staring.

“Ah! pigs, Peter,” nodded Old Amos, “Dutton’s pigs; ’is sow farrowed last week—­at three in the marnin’—­nine of ’em!”

“Well?” said I, wondering more and more.

“Well, Peter, they was a fine ‘earty lot, an’ all a-doin’ well —­till last Monday.”

“Indeed!” said I.

“Last Monday night, four on ’em sickened an’ died!”

“Most unfortunate!” said I.

“An’ the rest ’as never been the same since.”

“Probably ate something that disagreed with them,” said I, picking up my hammer and laying it down again.  Old Amos smiled and shook his head.

“You know James Dutton’s pigsty, don’t ye, Peter?”

“I really can’t say that I do.”

“Yet you pass it every day on your way to the ’Oller—­it lays just be’ind Simon’s oast-’ouse, as James ’isself will tell ’ee.”

“So it du,” interpolated Dutton, with an apologetic nod, “which, leastways, if it don’t, can’t be no’ow!” having delivered himself of which, he buried his face in the belcher handkerchief.

“Now, one evenin’, Peter,” continued Old Amos, “one evenin’ you leaned over the fence o’ that theer pigsty an’ stood a-lookin’ at they pigs for, p’r’aps, ten minutes.”