Then Foxey just shone white as
ivory, and he'd trot around in front of us, gruntin' to attract our
attention, till everybody'd said, "What a beautiful, clean pig--ain't
he just right?" Then he'd grunt his thanks to the company and retire
behind the shack for a nap. We used to fair kill ourselves laughing at
that darned pig. He had the most wheedlin' squeal, so soft and
pleadin'; and he'd look up at you with them skim-milk eyes of his so
pitiful, when he wanted a chunk of sugar, that you couldn't refuse him.
[Illustration: "Clean was no name for his personal appearance."]
And knowing! Honest, he knew more'n some men. One day old Wind River
was tellin' some things (that _might_ have happened to him) in his
usual way, bein' most careful to get the dates and all dead right, you
know--"Now, _was_ his name Peter, after all? Comes to my mind it was
Willyam--Willyam Perkins--Well--But, anyhow, him and me, we saw that
Injun," and so forth. This was a Sunday, and the gang of us sittin' in
a circle, fixing leathers and one thing and another and misstatin'
history faster than a horse could trot, with Foxey Bill in the middle,
cocking his head from one speaker to another, takin' it all in.
At last Wind River wound up the most startlin' and unlikely collections
of facts he'd favoured us with for some time. Up gets Foxey with a
shriek and gallops around the house. Any man with the rudiments of
intelligence would know he was hollerin': "Well, that's just too much
for me; ta-ra-rum!"
[Illustration: "Up gets Foxy with a shriek and gallops around the
house"]
Wind River looked scart.
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