Short Fiction by O. Henry (librera reader txt) 📕

“ ‘Sir,’ says she, ‘it’s no child of mine. It’s the pig squealing that your friend Mr. Tatum brought home to his room a couple of hours ago. And if you are uncle or second cousin or brother to it, I’d appreciate your stopping its mouth, sir, yourself, if you please.’

“I put on some of the polite outside habiliments of external society and went into Rufe’s room. He had gotten up and lit his lamp, and was pouring some milk into a tin pan on the floor for a dingy-white, half-grown, squealing pig.

“ ‘How is this, Rufe?’ says I. ‘You flimflammed in your part of the work tonight and put the game on crutches. And how do you explain the pig? It looks like backsliding to me.’

“ ‘Now, don’t be too hard on me, Jeff,’ says he. ‘You know how long I’ve been used to stealing shoats. It’s got to be a habit with me. And tonight, when I see such a fine chance, I couldn’t help takin’ it.’

“ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘maybe you’ve really got kleptopigia. And maybe when we get out of the pig belt you’ll turn your mind to higher and more remunerative misconduct. Why you should want to stain your soul with such a distasteful, feebleminded, perverted, roaring beast as that I can’t understand.’

“ ‘Why, Jeff,’ says he, ‘you ain’t in sympathy with shoats. You don’t understand ’em like I do. This here seems to me to be an animal of more than common powers of ration and intelligence. He walked half across the room on his hind legs a while ago.’

“ ‘Well, I’m going back to bed,’ says I. ‘See if you can impress it upon your friend’s ideas of intelligence that he’s not to make so much noise.’

“ ‘He was hungry,’ says Rufe. ‘He’ll go to sleep and keep quiet now.’

“I always get up before breakfast and read the morning paper whenever I happen to be within the radius of a Hoe cylinder or a Washington hand-press. The next morning I got up early, and found a Lexington daily on the front porch where the carrier had thrown it. The first thing I saw in it was a double-column ad on the front page that read like this:

The above amount will be paid, and no questions asked, for the return, alive and uninjured, of Beppo, the famous European educated pig, that strayed or was stolen from the sideshow tents of Binkley Bros.’ circus last night.

Geo. B. Tapley, Business Manager.

At the circus grounds.

“I folded up the paper flat, put it into my inside pocket, and went to Rufe’s room. He was nearly dressed, and was feeding the pig the rest of the milk and some apple-peelings.

“ ‘Well, well, well, good morning all,’ I says, hearty and amiable. ‘So we are up? And piggy is having his breakfast. What had you intended doing with that pig, Rufe?’

“ ‘I’m going to crate him up,’ says Rufe, ‘and express him to ma in Mount Nebo. He’ll be company for her while I am away.’

“ ‘He’s a mighty fine pig,’ says I, scratching him on the back.

“ ‘You called him a lot of names last night,’ says Rufe.

“ ‘Oh, well,’ says I, ‘he looks better to me this morning. I was raised on a farm, and I’m very fond of pigs. I used to go to bed at sundown, so I never saw one by lamplight before. Tell you what I’ll do, Rufe,’ I says. ‘I’ll give you ten dollars for that pig.’

“ ‘I reckon I wouldn’t sell this shoat,’ says he. ‘If it was any other one I might.’

“ ‘Why not this one?’ I asked, fearful that he might know something.

“ ‘Why, because,’ says he, ‘it was the grandest achievement of my life. There ain’t airy other man that could have done it. If I ever have a fireside and children, I’ll sit beside it and tell ’em how their daddy toted off a shoat from a whole circus full of people. And maybe my grandchildren, too. They’ll certainly be proud a whole passel. Why,’ says he, ‘there was two tents, one openin’ into the other. This shoat was on a platform, tied with a little chain. I seen a giant and a lady with a fine chance of bushy white hair in the other tent. I got the shoat and crawled out from under the canvas again without him squeakin’ as loud as a mouse. I put him under my coat, and I must have passed a hundred folks before I got out where the streets was dark. I reckon I wouldn’t sell that shoat, Jeff. I’d want ma to keep it, so there’d be a witness to what I done.’

“ ‘The pig won’t live long enough,’ I says, ‘to use as an exhibit in your senile fireside mendacity. Your grandchildren will have to take your word for it. I’ll give you one hundred dollars for the animal.’

“Rufe looked at me astonished.

“ ‘The shoat can’t be worth anything like that to you,’ he says. ‘What do you want him for?’

“ ‘Viewing me casuistically,’ says I, with a rare smile, ‘you wouldn’t think that I’ve got an artistic side to my temper. But I have. I’m a collector of pigs. I’ve scoured the world for unusual pigs. Over in the Wabash Valley I’ve got a hog ranch with most every specimen on it, from a Merino to a Poland China. This looks like a blooded pig to me, Rufe,’ says I. ‘I believe it’s a genuine Berkshire. That’s why I’d like to have it.’

“ ‘I’d shore like to accommodate you,’ says he, ‘but I’ve got the artistic tenement, too. I don’t see why it ain’t art when you can steal a shoat better than anybody else can. Shoats is a kind of inspiration and genius with me. Specially this one. I wouldn’t take two hundred and fifty for that animal.’

“ ‘Now, listen,’ says I, wiping off my forehead. ‘It’s not so much a matter of business with me as it is art; and not so much art as it is philanthropy. Being a connoisseur and disseminator