But Hyldy was
all docility. He ate his way through the grant, the office stationery,
and the central tin dump with the most disarming _naivete_. He was the
spoilt darling of every mess. The reflected glory which Isinglass and
myself enjoyed was positively embarrassing.
But as the summer advanced so did Hyldebrand. He became (to quote his
keeper) a "battle pig," with the head of a pantomime dragon,
fore-quarters of a bison, the hind-legs of a deer and a back like an
heraldic scrubbing-brush. In March I had inspected him as he sat upon my
knee. In June I shook hands with him as he strained at his tether. In
mid-September we nodded to each other from opposite sides of a barbed
wire fence. Yet Isinglass retained the most complete mastery of his
ferocious-looking protege, and beneath his skilful massage Hyldebrand
would throw himself upon the ground and guggle in a porcine ecstacy.
One sunny afternoon, when there had come upon the little village street
the inevitable hush which preceded Hyldebrand's hour for exercise, I
espied the village cripple making for his home with the celerity of an A
1 man. He glared reproachfully at me, and, with an exclamation of
"_Sacre sanglier!_" vanished in the open doorway of the local
boulangerie, that being nearer than his cottage. Then came Hyldebrand,
froth on his snout and murder in his little eyes, and after him
Isinglass more than living up to his equine namesake.
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