The once-crowded sty lay dark and still. I entered and switched on my
torch: it shone on the loathsome features that I knew so well. He was
all alone, so there could be no mistake. His head was as large
as ever, but his body seemed scarcely visible. I weighed him; he
registered fourteen pounds.:

I will not harrow you, my reader, with details. Suffice it to say my
nerve was sure, my eye true and my hand steady. I killed that pig with
a single shot and went home to bed.

The Doctor arrived next morning while I was shaving. He was white with
rage. He said:

"What the deuce do you mean by killing my pig?"

"_Your_ pig ?" I smiled. "No, _my_ Pig!"

"Stuff and nonsense!" he spluttered. "_Your_ pig died four months
ago--caught cold last July through being out so late at night and died
next day."

That roused me. "Do you mean to tell me," I asked coldly, "that I've
been paying five pounds a week for the last four months for a dead
pig?"

"Very kind of you, I'm sure," replied the Doctor, "but no one asked
you to, you know."

Adding together all my expenses--the weekly subscription for my pig;
a similar sum paid to the Doctor for his; the value of my swill; the