The Adventures of a Suburbanite

by Ellis Parker Butler

  VIII. SALTED ALMONDS

  AS WE approached our house, Mr. Millington, who was in his garage, andMr. Rolfs, who was on his porch, came to meet us. They looked at thecarriage with suspicion, but I assumed a careless, innocent look, wellcalculated to deceive them. They came down to the carriage, and laidtheir hands on it, and glanced into it. Mr. Rolfs, with ill-assumedabsent-mindedness, lifted the leather cover of the rear of the carriagebox and glanced in. I was glad we had put Chesterfield Whiting under theseat.

  "Shall I take in the--" Isobel began, but I cut her words short.

  "No, I will take in your _wraps_," I said meaningly, and then added:"Well, good night, Millington; good night, Rolfs."

  They did not take the hint. They walked beside the carriage as I droveto the stable, and although Mr. Prawley was able to do the work alone,and I made some excuse to help him, Rolfs and Millington seemed eager tohelp us.

  "I worked two hours over my automobile," said Millington, "and she isknocking again as usual. To-morrow, I propose you and I and our wiveswill take a little pig up to Port Lafayette--"

  "Pig?" I said. "What do you mean by pig, Millington."

  "Did I say pig?" said Millington in great confusion. "I meant to say:'take a little spin.'"

  "John will think you think he is thinking of keeping a pig," said Rolfsaccusingly to Millington. "He will think you are doubting his sanity.John would no more keep a pig on this place--"

  "Certainly not!" I cried. "The idea! Keep a pig!"

  "Well, you know," said Millington, and then stopped. "What is thatsqueak?" he asked.

  I knew only too well what that squeak was. It was Chesterfield.

  "That?" I said carelessly. "Oh, that is nothing. My carriage springsneed oiling. Mr. Prawley, don't forget to oil the carriage springsto-morrow."

  "Yes, sir," said Mr. Prawley, "but if I might suggest feeding the--"

  "Ahem!" I said loudly. "Oil the springs, Prawley. To-morrow."

  "When I said 'take a little pig,'" said Millington, "I meant--"

  "Millington," I said, "I forgive you! Men will make mistakes--slip ofthe tongue--Well, good night!"

  "See here," said Millington, "I know you feel some resentment."

  "No I don't! Good night!" I said angrily.

  "Yes you do!" said Millington. "And I'll tell you why. You rememberyou mentioned, some time ago, that you thought you would keep a pig?Personally I would be delighted to have you keep a pig or even a lot ofpigs. You could make an infernal stock yard of your place if youwanted to. I love pigs. If I could have my way I would have a pig penimmediately under my window, so that when I awakened in the morning Icould glance down at the happy, contented creatures. Nothing startsthe day so well as to see contented creatures, and there is nothing socontented as a pig. If I could have my own way I would beg you to buildyour pig pen immediately under my window. But I am not a selfish man."

  "I know you are not, Millington," I said; "but I am not considering thepurchase of a pig. Good night!"

  "Of course you are not," said Rolfs, "and I only want to say that if youdo keep a pig you can gratify Millington, for every law of pig culturedemands that you build your pig house against the western fence, and notagainst my fence. The pig is a delicate creature, and his pen should bewhere the invigorating rays of the morning sun can strike him. Now myfence is the eastern fence--"

  "And this man Rolfs pretends to be your friend!" exclaimed Millingtonsneeringly.

  "Why every one knows that unless a pig has sweet dreams he becomes moodyand listless, and loses interest in life. A pig's place of residenceshould always be where the last rays of the sun can strike him--againstthe eastern fence. You want to put that pen against Rolf's fence."

  At this Mr. Rolfs became greatly agitated. He glared at Mr. Millington,and shook his fist at me.

  "You'll put no pig pen on my side of your yard!" he said threateningly.

  "And you keep your pig pen away from my fence," said Mr. Millingtonhotly. "I am your friend, and I start to Port Lafayette with you dayafter day--"

  "Millington," said Rolfs, calming himself, "we will not have a pig inthis neighbourhood at all. If this fellow attempts to keep a pig we willhave the law on him. That is what we will do!"

  "That is what we will do, Rolfs," said Millington, "at the firstevidence of a pig we will set the police on him. We won't stand it!""Gentlemen," I said calmly, "I have no intention of keeping a pig. Suchan idea never entered my mind. And as for you, Millington, I know younow. You have shown yourself as you are. Never again, Millington, shallI start to Port Lafayette in your automobile. That is final! Good night,gentlemen!"

  Millington and Rolfs went off arm in arm, and when they were out ofsight I hurriedly rescued Chesterfield Whiting, in all his wrappings,from under the seat, and rushed him into the house. I let Mr. Prawleycontinue to unharness the horse. I told Isobel what my neighbours hadsaid. Chesterfield, in his gags, lay at my feet.

  "To-morrow, Isobel," I said, "we must get rid of Chesterfield Whiting.In the meantime we must keep him a dark secret. We must keep him silent,or we are lost."

  Suddenly the dust-robe bundle at our feet began to palpitate violently.It bounced like a fish out of water, and I made a grab for it.Chesterfield screamed. I threw myself hastily upon him and wrapped himin my arms and muzzled the bunch of veil that was his nose with my hand.As I stood erect again I chanced to glance out of the window, and I sawMr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington in deep conversation with a policeman. Fromtime to time they turned and glanced at my house. Motioning Isobel tofollow me, I bore Chesterfield to the attic. We closed the windows ofthe trunk room in the attic, and locked the door. Then I opened a trunk,unwrapped Chesterfield and dropped him into the trunk, and shut the lid.And sat on it.

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  Isobel peeked out of the window, and told me that the policeman and Mr.Rolfs and Mr. Millington were staring at our attic windows.

  An ordinary pig would have been glad to be unwrapped and dropped intoa cozy, roomy trunk, but Chesterfield was no ordinary pig. He was aweeper. First he wailed for his lost home. Then he screamed for hismother. Then he shrieked for each of his dear little brothers andsisters individually. Then he opened his lungs and squealed for all ofthem at once, and the policeman took out his note-book and wrote downthe number of our house. I realized then that keeping a pig in thesuburbs is attended by difficulties. The theory of keeping your pigscheerful and happy is all right in a book, but it is hard to live upto when the pig is homesick and a policeman with a note-book is on yourfront walk. It is well enough for an agricultural writer to sit inhis hall bedroom in the city and scribble about uplifting the pig,and spiritualizing it, and bathing it, but did he ever try to soothe ahomesick pig in an attic? Did he ever try to bathe a pig in a trunk? Didhe ever try to scatter sunshine in a pig's life when the pig has firmlymade up its mind to mourn? Did he ever try to reason with the pig whenthe pig is full of squeal, and has no desire in life but to pour fortheons and leagues of it?

  When a pig feels like that, it is useless to read it chapters fromHamilton Wright Mabie's "Essays on Nature and Culture." Occasionally Iopened the lid of the trunk and looked in to assure myself that therewas but one pig, and not three or four. When a pig reaches thestage where its eyes become set and stary, and it gives forth long,soul-piercing wails, it does not want a bath. It does not want sunshine,nor Bible classes, nor uplift, nor simple life. It wants food.

  The more I studied Chesterfield the more certain I became that if a manwants to win the affection of a pig he can best do so, not by liftingthe pig over the edge of a porcelain bath tub every few hours to giveit a rub-down, but by standing by with a couple of tons of feed andshovelling it down the pig with a scoop-shovel. The pig's squawker andits swallower are one and the same instrument, and the only way to keepthe squawker quiet is to keep the swallower plugged with food. In itsidle hours the pig may long for sweetness and light, but it wants mealsat all hours of the day and night.

  We found that Chesterfield preferred salted al
monds to affection. Hebegan eating salted almonds immediately after we had fed him everythingelse in the house that was edible, and by feeding him one almond at atime Isobel was able to keep him interested. By this means she kept hismind off his sorrows. He could not weep and chew.

  Time and again, as the hours slipped by, Isobel tested Chesterfield, tosee if he was satisfied, but at each test his sorrow broke forth afresh.I never knew a pig was so full of sorrows. I would not have believedthat so small a pig, so full of salted almonds, could have room for onesmall sorrow. And yet, the moment Isobel ceased feeding him, he wouldrun around inside the trunk, nosing it and wailing for--I don't knowwhat he was wailing for!

  About midnight, when Isobel was worn out, I took her place and let hergo to bed. I told her I would feed salted almonds until three, and thencall her, and she could feed until six, while I got a little sleep.About two o'clock in the morning I gave Chesterfield his eighteenthdrink of water, and when I offered him another salted almond he seemedlanguid. He eyed it covetously, opened his mouth, sighed once, and fellover sideways. His regular breathing told me he had fallen into a deep,sweet sleep, and I removed my shoes and stole softly downstairs.

  "He has fallen asleep," I told Isobel, "and I think he will probablytake a good nap. He has had a hard day. I left him quite comfortableand--"

  "Drink! Almonds! Mother! I'm lone-lee-ee-wee-wee-wee!" wailedChesterfield at that instant, and I hurried up to the attic. I threwopen the lid of the trunk, and found him standing on his feet. He wasstill asleep, his white-lashed eyes firmly closed in slumber, but hissquealer was working as if he were awake, and when I fed him a saltedalmond he munched and swallowed it without awakening, and squealed foranother. He was so sound asleep that he could not even reach out for thealmonds; I had to poke them into his mouth. When I missed his mouth anddropped the almond on the floor of the trunk he squealed. At last he laydown comfortably and slept and ate almonds.

  I had one great fear. I was running out of almonds. So I tried him withwads of newspaper, and found they satisfied him quite as well. I fed hima complete Sunday newspaper, including the coloured supplement and the"want" advertisements, before sunrise. I imagine the newspaper was notvery nourishing, for Chesterfield awakened at sunrise with a tremendousappetite, and let us know, plainly, that he was starving to death. Ifed him my breakfast and Isobel's while Mr. Prawley was digging up whatremained in our vegetable garden, and when Chesterfield had eaten that Igagged him with the pink veil, and stuffed his head in the sleeve of myrain coat once more.

  "Isobel," I said, "the time has at last come when we must cease keepingpigs. I love to be surrounded by affection, but I believe we have keptthis pig long enough. An attic is no place in which to run a modernswine industry. It is too far from the nearest bath tub. Bathe him now,if you would bathe him at all, for he is going back to the farm."

  "If we packed him in a trunk," said Isobel thoughtfully, paying noattention to the bath suggestion, "we might send him back to the farmerby express, and Mr. Rolfs and Mr. Millington would never know we had--"

  "That is a good idea," I said, "except that we do not know the name ofthe farmer, and that the Interurban does not deliver express parcelstwelve miles from Westcote--"

  "We might pack him in a suit case," suggested Isobel. "If we packed himin the suit case and pretended we were going on a picnic and that thesuit case was our lunch--I suppose Chesterfield will be some one's lunchsome day?"

  "Fine!" I said, and we began pretending we were going on a picnic. Ipacked Chesterfield Whiting in the suit case, and then went down and hadMr. Prawley harness the horse. I noticed that the policeman was stillhanging near our house, and that Mr. Millington was eyeing me from hisporch.

  "Ah! Millington!" I called cheerfully. "Fine day for a picnic! Isobeland I are just off for one."

  He came running over immediately. "Admirable!" he cried. "I was justcoming over to suggest that very thing. The automobile is runningbeautifully this morning, and we four can run up to Port Lafayette--"

  Port Lafayette!

  "Millington," I said, assuming an angry tone, "last evening you insultedme, and you seem to think I will forgive you thus easily. No indeed!I am not that sort of man, Millington. I will not take Isobel to PortLafayette, for I have promised to let you take us there, but we willgo on this picnic behind Bob. And if you see Rolfs just tell him what asilly ass he made of himself, thinking I would be crazy enough to keep apig. I may be some kinds of a fool, Millington, but I am not that kind!"

  I think Millington blushed. He should have blushed. Saying I would keepa pig, indeed!

  When I returned for Isobel and carried the suit case downstairs I feltas light-hearted as a boy. Chesterfield was so well muzzled and gaggedthat he made no sound whatever, and when I stepped from my door, withIsobel by my side, I was pleased to see Rolfs stepping from his frontdoor, and I hailed him. He stopped, but he looked annoyed.

  "If you want to say anything ugly, say it quick," he said, "for I'm ina rush to catch a train, and if I just catch it, I can just catch theferry, to catch a train for Chicago. I can't stop now--"

  "Get in the buggy," I said heartily, "we will drive you to the station.Isobel and I are going on a little picnic. Put your suit case in theback, with ours. We always carry our lunch in a suit case when we gopicnicing. Hop in!"

  "Well, it is kind of you," said Rolfs rather sheepishly. "I hope youdid not feel hurt by what I said last night about pigs. I feel ratherstrongly about pigs."

  "Rolfs," I said as I gathered up the reins, "I am not a man to nursehard feelings, but I must say--"

  "Look here!" said Rolfs, "I did not get into this buggy to listen to--"

  "You can get out again," I said inhospitably, "any time you do notlike straight, honest talk. I mean nothing unneighbourly but when a manaccuses--"

  Without another word Rolfs jumped out, and grabbing his suit case,walked haughtily away. I could not forbear giving him a little dig.

  "_Bon voyage_, Rolfs," I called. "Don't get pigs on the brain to-nightagain!" and Isobel and I laughed as we drove away.

  When the farmer saw us drive into his yard he seemed surprised, but hewas nice about it. He said he was willing to pay us back half what wehad paid him for Chesterfield Whiting, but we would not hear of it.

  "No," I said firmly, "we have had our money's worth of pig!"

  Then I opened the suit case.

  It contained, among other things, a suit of pajamas, a tooth brush, fourshirts, six pair of socks, underwear, handkerchiefs, a book entitled"The Complete Rights of the Citizen," and twelve collars. But no pig.

  All the articles were of good quality, and most had Rolf's initialson them. I must say the suit case contained a nice assortment ofhaberdashery. But no pig. Not that I blamed Rolfs for not packing apig in his suit case, for he was going to Chicago where there are stockyards full of pigs, if he should happen to want one. And a suit case isno place for a pig, anyway. Imagine the feelings of a man in a sleepingcar when he has buckled the curtains of his berth around him, and haspartly undressed behind them. And then imagine him reaching down andopening his suit case, expecting to find a suit of pajamas, and finding,instead, a pig. Imagine him when the pig--a Chesterfield Whitingpig--springs lightly forth and gives voice to his homesickness!

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