"
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."
"Did they eat it?" demanded Wesley.
"They just chanked into it," replied Billy graphically. "They pushed,
and squealed, and fought over it.
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