small, of course, but that gave me the opening for what was
undoubtedly the most successful sally of the afternoon. Someone said
they weighed five pounds apiece. "One pound per pound," I remarked.

A week later the Doctor called for my second instalment. "Pig going
strong," he chattered gaily while I wrote out the cheque; "best of a
good litter--bust its pink ribbon yesterday; twice the weight it was
when it came."

It was on the tip of my tongue to repeat my witticism, which was still
true, but I refrained.

I paid the first dozen five-pound instalments without comment. Up till
then I had been fully occupied in studying how FOCH was getting on
with the other sort of pig over there. But now I began to think.

I was thinking heavily when I put on my hat, but when I reached the
premises of the Patriot Pigs I was thinking things that I prefer not
to talk about. To begin with, they were housing the poor little beasts
in a place you wouldn't dream of inflicting on the poorest labourer.
And the overcrowding! And the dirt! And the pigs themselves! They were
positively uncanny. There was something almost human about them. They
were all heads and no bodies. It was just as though the other half of
the wits of the half-witted boy who looked after them had distributed
itself among the whole herd. I could have wept when I thought how
my purse and my swill-tub had been emptied to keep such puny
monstrosities in the land of the living.

I had my pig taken out and weighed. He turned the scale at forty-eight
pounds.