Chapter XI: Concerning the End of a Pig

“COMING out, Robin?”

“Too hot, I think,” Robin said, lazily. “Where do you want to go?”

“Oh, anywhere. What’s the good of staying in the house?”

“I don’t see much good in going out, either, in this weather. There isn’t a trout in the creek that would rise, on a day like this, and you know you wouldn’t get a shot at a rabbit until the evening. Unless you want to be like all the other tourists, and shoot parrots and jackasses!”

This was a calculated insult, and Barry responded by a well-aimed cushion. Robin caught it deftly and tucked it under her head.

“Thanks: I just wanted that. Barry, why can’t you read a book nicely like a good little boy?”

“Because I’m not one, I expect,” said Barry, truthfully. “I was one, once, before I came here—but two months of your society have had an awful effect on me. And I have read all the books I want to, and—I say, Robin, how about a swim?”

“Well, that is not such a foolish idea,” Robin said. “In fact, it seems the most possible thing to do, since you won’t let me read quietly. But I must get afternoon tea first.”

“I’ll help you,” he said. He disappeared violently from the veranda, and she heard the clatter of the kettle against the kitchen tap.

January was nearly over, and Barry was still an inmate of Hill Farm. Indeed, he could hardly be called a mere inmate, so much had he become a member of the family. His father and mother had returned from their Queensland trip, and had kindly invited him to return home, but the invitation had not been a command, and Barry had begged that he might remain where he was. Melbourne in mid-January made no appeal to him: nearly all his friends would be out of Town, having fled to the hills or the seaside, and he saw a dreary vision of hot streets with dusty tram-cars crawling up and down them. If Mrs. Hurst would have him—and Mrs. Hurst had nobly refrained from making any objection—why might he not stay at Hill Farm until school once more drew him into its relentless clutch? And since Dr. and Mrs. Lane had no sufficient answer to this query, at Hill Farm he had stayed.

Robin and he were inseparable chums, on a purely boyish footing. There was rarely any question of leadership on Barry’s part: he had learned from the first that he had to defer to Robin’s superior knowledge, and to adapt his days, if he wanted her companionship, to her occupations. It was fortunate for him that these occupations were rarely of a feminine nature. He was too active to remain unemployed while she worked; therefore it came about that while she milked Bessy he fed pigs, and while she trained runner beans in the way they should go, he dug potatoes—since, if they were to have time to play, work must be done first. Because they were young, and often very feather-headed, it was true that the work was not infrequently scamped; the garden was by no means the place of shining neatness that it had been in November, and it was possible, with the naked eye, to find weeds flourishing among the rows of vegetables. The painting of the garden fence had never been completed. The allies had, indeed attacked it, taking each one side, and had worked until the eastern half was done; then it had seemed a rather dreary prospect to begin upon the western half, and by mutual consent the work had been put aside until there was nothing better to do—a period that did not seem likely to arrive while Barry remained at Hill Farm. There were always so many things more interesting that clamoured for their attention.

They got into mischief, too, sometimes, and played pranks which called for intervention on the part of Mrs. Hurst; it was not to be expected that the “red-headed streak” in Robin would remain dormant with a companion as light-hearted as herself. Things that should have been done were forgotten, and there had been one or two occasions when the mother had been angry—such as the night when they had slipped out ’possum-hunting at midnight, had lost themselves in the gullies, and had not managed to get home until long after breakfast-time: when they arrived, penitent, but with an irrepressible air of having had a good time. But it was all straightforward mischief; and even when Mrs. Hurst was annoyed, it was with a half-hidden sense of relief that Robin was not growing old too soon. There had been something almost unnatural in the Robin who had worked early and late, had never forgotten anything that she should remember, and had been quite content to adapt her life to her mother’s standpoints. After all, she was only a child, still; and Mrs. Hurst was one of those who believe that childhood cannot always sit up and behave prettily, if it is to develop on the right lines. She had sorrowed because Robin seemed likely to have none of the ordinary irresponsible joy of life. Unquestionably, she was arriving at a good deal in Barry’s society.

Then, too, it would not last. Barry must soon go, and then there would be nothing for Robin but to slip into the old routine, finding most of her enjoyment in work about the place. Then, probably, the western half of the fence would receive a seemly coat of paint, and Hill Farm would no longer look lop-sided; hours for meals would become splendidly regular, the garden would be weeded, and the milk-bucket be polished again with monkey-soap until it resembled silver. There would be no more pranks and mischief: no gay shouts echoing over the hills. “And I shall wish all the time that she had a playmate again,” Mrs. Hurst admitted to herself.

There was another inmate now at Hill Farm—the forlorn little widow of poor “Jim,” who had ended his ineffectual life in the camp by the Falls. Polly had been nursed back to health in the hospital in Baroin; but with physical health full mental balance had not returned, and she would probably go through life gentle and uncomplaining, but never with complete realization of all that had happened to her. Public sympathy had been excited over her case: a subscription for her benefit had resulted in a fairly large sum, and kindly women had united in supplying her with an outfit of clothes. She did not know that her Jim was dead: that was something the hurt mind failed to grasp. He was away, she told people: gone away prospecting into the hills—he would be back for her as soon as he found gold. She did not seem to worry about Jim. But from the moment she had regained consciousness in the hospital she had begged for Robin.

She did not, of course, know who Robin was—did not even know her name, or why she wanted her. “The red-haired one,” she entreated, again and again, until the Baroin doctor, in despair, had motored out to Hill Farm and brought Robin to the hospital—when immediately the poor thing was content. Probably it was because Robin had been the one who had run to meet her at the camp: the first person who had brought a ray of encouragement to her hopeless misery. She remembered how the girl had fed her with a spoon; she told the story again and again to the nurses. When Robin went away she was restless and uneasy, asking for her continually. The matter had been finally settled by the Benevolent Society, which had agreed with Mrs. Hurst to take charge of her for a small weekly payment: and so Polly had come for three months to Hill Farm, where she pottered happily all day at small tasks, perfectly content if Robin now and then spared her a cheery word, and always watching for a chance to do her some small service. She liked Mrs. Hurst, and was always gentle and docile with her. But Robin was the sun of her existence.

Cool weather had ended with Christmas. For over a month no rain had fallen, and the paddocks had dried up rapidly, changing from green to yellow within a few days. All the creeks were shrinking, with the exception of Merri Creek, which, fed from its mysterious source above the Falls, had never been known to fail: the others were mere chains of holes, so that there was no water in some of David Merritt’s paddocks. It was a hard season for a district that depended mainly on dairying. The milk-yield began to fall off, so that the cheques from the butter-factory dwindled even as the water dwindled in the creeks: the gardens suffered, and the farmers whose houses were not well equipped with tanks were already carting water for their households—a strenuous task in country so hilly and rough.

Here and there, fires broke out during the last week of January: but settlers were fully alive to the risk they ran, and every outbreak had been fought and beaten before it could spread. Back in the ranges, however, fires were burning: the men of the district watched them anxiously, with grim predictions of what might happen should strong winds bring the blaze down towards the valleys. There were deep-voiced threats against any man who should dare to burn off his cut scrub, with the whole country as dry as tinder and dead grass as thick as a crop in every paddock. “If a fire does come our way,” David Merritt said, “there’ll be no earthly use in fighting it. It’ll be a case of make for the nearest hole in the creek, and be thankful if you get out of it alive!”

“But they always talk like that,” one farmer’s wife said to Mrs. Hurst. “There’ve been other years as dry, with the grass as thick: but even if a fire started they always manage to stop it. And most prob’ly rain’ll came soon.” That was the comforting belief: that rain would come soon. But the sun sank each evening in a sky of angry red; and day after day of breathless heat succeeded nights that, for Gippsland, were extraordinarily hot: Gippsland being a place where hot nights are almost unknown. And still rain seemed as far off as ever.

The afternoon when Barry had been so uncomfortably full of energy was a stifling one: and though his suggestion of a bathe in the creek was enticing, Robin viewed with no pleasure the prospect of the walk across the paddock. However, since he had rushed off to put on the kettle for tea, she felt that she could no longer lie down: and as the bed was hot and her book one that she had read twice before, she was able to be the more philosophic about getting up. She went out to the kitchen to find Barry sitting on the table discoursing to Polly, who greeted her with a delighted smile.

“Hullo, Miss Robin. Isn’t he a funny boy?”

“Rather!” said Robin. “What has he been doing now, Polly?”

“Been telling me stories,” said Polly. “Funny stories. I like your stories best.”

“Of course you do,” said Robin, laughing at Barry’s disgusted face. “I’ll tell you about Cinderella after tea, if you like—when he is out of the way.” For Polly loved stories, and would listen to the simplest fairy-tale, told over and over, with the most perfect delight. It was no unusual thing for her to crouch near Robin as she worked in the garden, listening, with parted lips and shining eyes, while Robin told her “The Three Bears,” or some other nursery classic, between strokes of her hoe.

“I never saw such rotten taste!” said Barry, disgustedly. “I’ve been telling her a gorgeous yarn I read about some Boy Scouts who got off with an aeroplane—but I believe it’s all double-Dutch to her.”

“Yes—double-Dutch!” said Polly, chuckling to herself over the phrase. “Funny little boy!”

“Here, I say—who are you calling little?” demanded Barry, justly indignant.

“Double-Dutch little boy,” crooned Polly, softly. “Double-Dutch little boy!” The words pleased her, and she drifted out of the kitchen, still singing them softly. Barry laughed, but there was pity in the laugh.

“Poor soul!” he said. “She’s just awfully funny, but what a shame it all is. She’d be a jolly nice little woman if she hadn’t had that cruel time.”

“I think she’s that now,” said Robin. “There never was anyone kinder, and she’s very capable and sensible in lots of ways. Only, just like a little child.” She sighed. “You know, I can’t bear to think of her after she leaves here: they are going to put her in some Home or other, and she’ll simply hate it. She can’t stand being within four walls—do you notice she always wanders out of a room after a few minutes? She told me once that something would hurt her if she stayed in a room.”

“Queer idea,” said Barry.

“Yes, isn’t it? And she loves the hills: she often sits on a stump in the paddock and looks at them for an hour at a time. I wonder does she think Jim is in them?”

“I wouldn’t wonder—poor soul. She never asks for him, does she?”

“No—she just says he’s coming back when he finds gold. But she will hate to be in a place with high walls in a city. I think she may begin to fret for Jim then. Mother and I wish we could keep her here, but I suppose it’s out of the question.”

“It would be a tremendous tie,” Barry remarked. “You could never leave her alone.”

“No: it hasn’t mattered yet, but of course it might be a difficulty. Anyhow, we couldn’t afford it. What a blessed nuisance money is! it’s always interfering with what one wants to do. If I could find a gold-mine Mother and I wouldn’t have any worries.”

“You’d have to manage the miners, and they’d always be going on strike,” said Barry, wisely. “Anyhow, you get a heap of fun out of life, without a gold-mine. There! that old kettle is boiling at last: I was getting so hot I thought I should boil before it did! When I strike my own mine, Robin, I’m going to have an electric plant put in here, so’s you can cook by electricity instead of that hot old wood-stove.” He filled the teapot, and then discovered that he had not put in any tea, at which he was justifiably annoyed.

“Your mind is too set on high projects,” laughed Robin, preparing the tray swiftly. “Never mind—you boiled three times as much water as we need; pitch it out, and the teapot will be as hot as Mother likes it to be, which is one good thing. Cake or biscuits? You can’t have bread-and-butter, ’cause all the butter is down the well. It was fast turning to oil this morning, so I put it down the well in a Mason jar.”

“Cake and biscuits, please,” said Barry. “Where’s your mother?”

“Lying down—she promised me, after a heated argument, that she would lie down until after five o’clock. I’m going to take this tray to her.” She went to the door and called softly. “Polly! Are you there?”

“Yes, Miss Robin.” Polly came hurrying, her face alight.

“Here’s your tea. Would you like to take it into the yard, in the shade?”

“Yes, please, Miss Robin. I like the yard.”

“All right. There’s a big piece of cake for you, and two biscuits—don’t let that funny boy get them!” Polly laughed delightedly, and scuttled into the kitchen; and Robin went off with her mother’s tray.

“We’re going for a swim, and we want to try to get some rabbits afterwards, Mother,” she said. “Does it matter if we’re late for tea? I’ll get it when we come in.”

“It doesn’t matter at all,” said Mrs. Hurst. “I don’t think anyone will be in a hurry for tea on such an evening. But don’t knock yourself up, dear.”

“Oh, no. Anyhow, we won’t be really late, because there is so much smoke about that we shan’t be able to shoot once the sun goes down. So I need not milk and feed until we come in. You won’t do it yourself, you bad old mother?—promise! Barry will help me.”

“Very well, I won’t,” Mrs. Hurst said. “Is Polly all right?”

“Yes—I’ll tell her not to go out of the yard. Well, I must go and get my tea, or Barry will have eaten all the cake.” She blew a merry kiss to her mother, and disappeared.

They set off presently across the paddock, Polly straining wistful eyes after their retreating figures.

“Whew-w, it’s hot!” whistled Barry. “Queer, wicked sort of heat—makes a chap feel all anyhow. This is the first day I’ve wanted to be back in Melbourne. Not that I want Melbourne: I don’t—but I want the sea.”

“Then I don’t see why you want the old Melbourne sea—that’s only the Bay.” Robin made disdainful answer. “It’s all used-up water. I’d rather have the Ninety-Mile Beach; great tumbling breakers as far as ever you can see each way, and a big lovely stretch of sand.”

Barry disagreed with this.

“I know it’s good,” he said. “But I want a place where you can dive. I like to get high up above the water and look right down into it, and then just shoot below! And then have room to swim under water: you can dive in some of the creek-holes, but the mud below spoils them. There’s a jetty at Inverloch where I used to dive—gorgeous place, with a good stiff current racing past, out to sea. That’s fun, if you like!”

“Thanks, I like mine without currents,” Robin laughed. “Anyhow, you will have to put up with the creek this afternoon, ’cause its all we’ve got.”

“Lucky to have it,” was Barry’s comment “I’ll race you in!”

They had arrived at their swimming-hole, a deep still place where the creek widened among lofty grey rocks. One formed a shelf that jutted over the deepest part: and when Barry had emerged from his dressing-nook he ran out upon it, standing bare-headed, a muscular, sturdy figure in his scanty swimming-suit. He sent a defiant crow in the direction of Robin, who had not yet appeared, and then bent forward, cleaving the air in a neat dive. A mighty splashing startled Robin, as she ran out, and she looked down to see him swimming wildly across the pool. Gaining the nearest rock he pulled himself out, and gave an excited shout.

“Don’t come in! Ugh! I dived on top of a snake!”

“Barry! It didn’t bite you?”

“No. I scared it too much.” He was scanning the water sharply. “There it is—see him, Robin? He’s swimming towards that little patch of sand between the rocks.”

“I see him,” Robin said. “Nice of him to come out my side, if only I can get a stick in time. Watch him, Barry—don’t take your eyes off him.” She scrambled down the rocks, wincing as sharp edges caught her bare feet; and then turned back to her dressing-hole. “The gun is quicker,” she observed, in answer to Barry’s impatient shout.

She ran out on the ledge with her gun just as the snake crawled out of the water upon the warm stretch of sunny sand. He liked the feel of it, and decided to stay a moment: a decision that was immediately his undoing. The report of the gun shattered the stillness, and what was left of the snake writhed feebly.

“Good man!” said Barry, happily. “That fellow won’t go bathing again.”

“Neither will I, until we have a good look round,” said the lady with the gun. “No fun in bathing with snakes. Get your boots on, Barry, and we’ll make sure his mate is not about.” They beat the bushes with sticks, poked into every crevice, and finally decided that to bathe was safe; and being, by this time, extremely hot, bathed for a very long while, without giving another thought to the possibility of snakes—which, indeed, would scarcely have ventured into the excited waters of the pool when people as energetic as Robin and Barry were disporting themselves in it. Finally, having dressed with reluctance, they pondered on what should be their next step.

“Too early to shoot,” Robin said. “There won’t be many rabbits about, anyhow: the heat and the smoke will keep them in their burrows. That fire up in the ranges must be getting bigger, Barry.”

“The smoke is certainly worse,” Barry remarked. “I hope the old fire stays where it is, that’s all.” He dived into the little canvas bag in which he carried his cartridges, and produced something wrapped in paper. “Know what that is, Robin?”

“No,” said Robin: “I don’t. Rum-looking stuff. What is it, Barry? Soap?”

Barry regarded with a proud eye the stick of putty-like substance he had unwrapped.

“Soap!” he said, scornfully. “I don’t cart yellow soap about with me, you silly! That’s gelignite.” He tossed up the plug and caught it, and Robin gave a cry of alarm.

“You idiot, Barry! Do take care—it might go off.”

“So might you,” was Barry’s impolite response. “Gelignite doesn’t go off like that—you’ve got to have a detonator, and fuse. I’ve got ’em, too.” He took from his bag a length of thick black cord, and a small tin box, handling the latter with considerable respect. It contained an innocent-looking little copper tube, closed at one end.

“That’s the detonator,” he explained. “You stick the end of the fuse into it and nip the tube with pliers so’s she can’t slip out. Then you shove the closed end of the detonator down into the gelignite, and everything’s ready.”

“But how does it go off?”

“Why, you put the gelignite where you want to blast things, and light the fuse: it burns at the rate of about a foot a minute. Soon as she begins to sputter, you know she’s properly alight, and then you scoot as hard as you can lick. And then—bang!”

Robin regarded the expert in explosives with something akin to reverence.

“How did you find out all about it?” she asked.

“Oh, I used to see the men blasting when they were making a new railway line one year when we went to Queensland,” said Barry. “They’d always let me watch until just before they lit the fuse. I found this outfit in one of the sheds, high up on a beam—it was in an old biscuit-tin. Must have belonged to your Uncle Donald.”

“What would he do with it?”

“Oh, lots of men use it for getting rid of old stumps and trees. So I collared it, because I had a great idea!”

“What?” demanded Robin. “Tell me, Barry!”

Barry regarded her in silence for a moment, his head on one side, like an inquisitive bird.

“I thought we could have no end of a lark with it,” he said. “I’ve seen the men using it so often, and I’ve always wanted to have a bit myself.”

“But isn’t it awfully dangerous?”

“Not a bit,” said Barry, airily, “if you know how to use it. Of course, in any ordinary place, and with the country as dry as it is, it wouldn’t do. But you know that rocky place up at the head of that gully—” he jerked his hand towards the hills. “There’s nothing but rocks there and mossy stuff and bare earth—not much earth, either. A few ferns sticking among the lumps of rock. It would be perfectly safe there. Let’s go and try it!”

He sat back on his heels and looked at her with an impish expression of joy in his plan.

“I suppose it would be safe,” Robin said. “The walls of the gully are so steep, and there is no grass there to be set on fire—only a few clumps of bracken, and we could watch them.” Her eye began to kindle. “It would be rather a lark!” she said. “But I wonder what Mr. Merritt would say. He rents that part, you know.”

“Oh, it won’t hurt him. We’ll hunt any of his cows out of the gully, if they’re there. If he hears the bang, and says anything about it, we’ll tell him, of course. I expect he’s used any amount of the stuff himself, blasting out stumps.” Barry jumped up. “Come along, Robin, old chap!”

“All right,” Robin said, recklessly.

“Hurroo!” cried Barry. “I knew you’d be a sport. You’re nearly as good as a boy!” He capered down the rocks ahead of her, and they set off on their way to the gully.

It was an ideal spot for such a lawless enterprise. The gully was a short one, running back between two great rocky hills that were almost bare of timber. At the closed end the walls of rock were very lofty: they could be fairly certain that no flying fragments of stone could reach the top. No stock were to be seen: all the ground was littered with half-buried boulders, among which patches of withered bracken clung. A few rabbits scurried away as they came in sight; but the children were far too excited to think of shooting. The sight, however, gave Robin a flash of common sense.

“We’ll leave the guns and all our cartridges here,” she said, halting beside a big tree near the entrance to the gully—the only tree that grew there. “Put them on this side, and nothing will be likely to touch them when you blow that old cliff to bits!”

“All right,” Barry agreed. “I prospected this place yesterday, you know; there’s a sort of cave between those two great rocks over yonder, and we can hide there while we’re waiting for the bang. Nothing could hit us—it’s as safe as a dugout.” He pranced along, almost running, to the end of the gully, where they halted—two little figures under the walls of frowning grey rock. “That’s the bit of stone I want to shift,” he said, pointing upwards.

Robin looked. A big square rock jutted sharply from the face of the cliff, with a mass of loose boulders under it.

“I’d give my hat to blow that big chap out!” declared Barry, excitedly. “There’s a cleft right behind him, on top—I can just get my hand in, up to the elbow. Gelignite shatters downwards, you know: I want to get the plug well down into that cleft. It’s a perfectly gorgeous place for the charge!”

“Well, it couldn’t do any harm, that I can see,” Robin said. “As long as you’re sure we have time to get out of the way.”

“Oh, whips of time! How do you suppose the men manage when they’re using this stuff every day?”

“They know more about it than I do,” was Robin’s sage comment. “But I suppose it’s all right: I’m game to chance it, anyhow. Carry on!”

She climbed up beside him, and explored for herself the hole where the charge was to go, and watched him place it in position.

“Now, you clear!” he told her. “No sense in our being in each other’s way when we’re scrambling down these rocks.”

“I suppose there isn’t,” she said, unwillingly. “But oh, Barry, do be careful! Suppose you slipped and hurt an ankle or something when you’re getting down?”

“Much more likely to do it if I’ve a girl blocking the way!” said the lordly male. “But I’m not going to do any such fat-headed thing. I know what I’m about. Cut, now, Robin, and I’ll set her going!”

Robin scrambled down the rocks, noting, with some relief, that the way was easy. Further she would not go, alone: she waited, with her heart beginning to beat heavily until Barry followed her, with amazing speed, and together they ran like frightened hares to their “dugout.” As they passed the largest patch of bracken they heard a quiet, satisfied grunting.

“Wonder if that’s a wombat?” panted Barry. “Well, he’s going to get the shock of his life!”

They reached their cave and crawled thankfully into its shelter. A split in the rock gave them a peep-hole, and they looked out anxiously. As they did so, two plump forms emerged from the ferns, still grunting.

“Oh, my sainted Aunt!” groaned Barry. “Robin, they’re Merritt’s young pigs!”

“Barry!” screamed Robin. “I’m going to hunt them!” She wriggled back, and the boy caught her sleeve in a tight grip.

“You silly ass!” he panted. “Keep back! I wouldn’t let you go out there for fifty pigs! Keep your head down, I tell you, Robin, you old——”

_Bang!_

The explosion burst upon their ears with shattering force. Never was such a noise—the walls of the gully, closing it in, seemed to rock with its deafening thunder. The great mass of rock shot from the face of the cliff, flying into a hundred pieces. Shattered fragments strewed the ground, banging and clattering on their protecting crags. One little pig uttered an ear-piercing shriek, and fled for the open country, his shrill notes of protest dying away in the distance. The other disappeared beneath a hurtling mass of stone.

Barry burst into a shout of excited laughter.

“Oh, my goodness, Robin, did you see him! Won’t there be a jolly row! A big bit of rock just sailed through the air, and absolutely flattened him—he never knew what hit him. And the pig was not! Just listen to his brother—he’s got shell-shock!”

They scrambled out of their hole, and gazed at the slab of stone, from which protruded a melancholy curly tail. It was mercifully clear that the deceased pig could not have known what hit him.

“Now you’ll have to tell Mr. Merritt,” said Robin.

“Yes, of course. I’ll pay him for poor piggy. Well, he shouldn’t have hidden in that bracken until it was too late. Anyhow, he died gloriously on the field of battle, and it’s better than living to be made into pork sausages. Wasn’t it a topping blast! Come and see what it has done to my rock.”

The smoke of the explosion still lingered about the head of the gully, mingling with air already murky with bush-fire smoke; but they could see that the charge had done its work very thoroughly. Not only was the big rock gone, shattered to pieces, but the whole face of the rocky wall, for many feet, had been split off: the new, clean-looking stone showed curiously against the weathered and moss-grown stretch on either side. They looked at it respectfully.

“Well, we’ve made our mark,” Robin said, at length. “No sign of burning anywhere, is there, Barry?”

They searched carefully, but found no trace of fire: the explosion had confined itself to the head of the gully, save for the flying fragments. Mr. Merritt’s pig remained the one sacrifice.

“’Told you I knew all about it,” said Barry, triumphantly. “I vote we go home now: shooting rabbits would be too tame altogether after a bang like that!”

“All right,” Robin agreed. She looked curiously at the stretch of newly-exposed stone.

“Isn’t that pretty rock?” she observed. “It’s got such queer colours and markings.”

“Just what a girl would say!” was Barry’s scornful rejoinder. “It’s only old rock: I don’t see anything pretty about it. But the bang was gorgeous, if you like! I’m going to be an engineer when I grow up—they always have lots of blasting rocks in their jobs!”

“Do they always kill pigs?” asked Robin, cruelly.