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[Illustration: THE VICTIM.]

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THE PATRIOT PIG.

Last Spring I was discussing food with our local doctor. Last Spring
it was quite a favourite topic.

"Now," I said, "we can manage to scratch along somehow. But next
year..."

The Doctor, a hearty man, gave me a smashing blow on the shoulder. "I
have it!" he trumpeted. "We'll start a Patriot Pig Club."

Before he left I found myself an important pillar of the scheme.
Pillars, you know, are the parts of an edifice that bear the weight.
Their function is to be sat upon by the arches. In this case the
arches were Jones the doctor and Perkins the butcher.

The Committee began sitting. I put five pounds into the preliminary
pool and promised them all my pig-swill. I know I did, because the
Doctor came straight from the meeting to my house to tell me I had,
and to collect the cheque.

The pigs arrived. I myself and a number of other enthusiasts turned
out to welcome them. The Doctor, I remember, made a happy little
speech, and we all laughed a lot. The Committee were very pleased with
themselves. They _were_ dear little chaps--the pigs, I mean--very