To conclude the adventures of Alexander—­the policeman sauntered up to the house about tea time, followed by a damp subdued little pig.  I disposed of Alexander in the neighborhood; he did fairly well when he had settled down.

Pigling Bland went on alone dejectedly; he came to cross roads and a sign-post—­“To Market-town 5 miles,” “Over the Hills, 4 miles,” “To Pettitoes Farm, 3 miles.”

Pigling Bland was shocked, there was little hope of sleeping in Market Town, and tomorrow was the hiring fair; it was deplorable to think how much time had been wasted by the frivolity of Alexander.

He glanced wistfully along the road towards the hills, and then set off walking obediently the other way, buttoning up his coat against the rain.  He had never wanted to go; and the idea of standing all by himself in a crowded market, to be stared at, pushed, and hired by some big strange farmer was very disagreeable—­

“I wish I could have a little garden and grow potatoes,” said Pigling Bland.

He put his cold hand in his pocket and felt his paper, he put his other hand in his other pocket and felt another paper—­Alexander’s!  Pigling squealed; then ran back frantically, hoping to overtake Alexander and the policeman.

He took a wrong turn—­several wrong turns, and was quite lost.

It grew dark, the wind whistled, the trees creaked and groaned.

Pigling Bland became frightened and cried “Wee, wee, wee!  I can’t find my way home!”

After an hour’s wandering he got out of the wood; the moon shone through the clouds, and Pigling Bland saw a country that was new to him.

The road crossed a moor; below was a wide valley with a river twinkling in the moonlight, and beyond —­in misty distance—­lay the hills.

He saw a small wooden hut, made his way to it, and crept inside —­“I am afraid it is a hen house, but what can I do?” said Pigling Bland, wet and cold and quite tired out.

“Bacon and eggs, bacon and eggs!” clucked a hen on a perch.

“Trap, trap, trap! cackle, cackle, cackle!” scolded the disturbed cockerel.  “To market, to market! jiggettyjig!” clucked a broody white hen roosting next to him.  Pigling Bland, much alarmed, determined to leave at daybreak.  In the meantime, he and the hens fell asleep.

In less than an hour they were all awakened.  The owner, Mr. Peter Thomas Piperson, came with a lantern and a hamper to catch six fowls to take to market in the morning.

He grabbed the white hen roosting next to the cock; then his eye fell upon Pigling Bland, squeezed up in a corner.  He made a singular remark—­“Hallo, here’s another!” —­seized Pigling by the scruff of the neck, and dropped him into the hamper.  Then he dropped in five more dirty, kicking, cackling hens upon the top of Pigling Bland.

The hamper containing six fowls and a young pig was no light weight; it was taken down hill, unsteadily, with jerks.  Pigling, although nearly scratched to pieces, contrived to hide the papers and peppermints inside his clothes.