in each company of five, I lend a pound, to buy
a pig. But, each, man of the five becomes bound
for every other man, as to the repayment of
his money. Consequently, they look after
one another, and pick out their partners with
care; selecting men in whom they have confidence."

"They repay the money, I suppose, when the
pig is fattened, killed, and sold?"

"Yes. Then they repay the money. And
they do repay it. I had one man, last year,
who was a little tardy (he was in the habit
of going to the public-house); but even he did
pay. It is an immense advantage to one of
these poor fellows to have a pig. The pig
consumes the refuse from the man's cottage and
Allotment-garden, and the pig's refuse enriches
the man's garden besides. The pig is the poor
man's friend. Come into the club-house again."

The poor man's friend. Yes. I have often
wondered who really was the poor man's friend
among a great number of competitors, and I now
clearly perceive him to be the pig. He never
makes any flourishes about the poor man. He
never gammons the poor man— except to his
manifest advantage in the article of bacon. He
never comes down to this house, or goes down to
his constituents. He openly declares to the
poor man, " I want my sty because I am a Pig;
I desire to have as much to eat as you can by
any means stuff me with, because I am a Pig."
He never gives the poor man a sovereign for
bringing up a family. He never grunts the poor
man's name in vain. And when he dies in the
odour of Porkity, he cuts up, a highly useful
creature and a blessing to the poor man, from
the ring in his snout to the curl in his tail.
Which of the poor man's other friends can say
as much? Where is the M.P. who means Mere
Pork?

The dreary Sage had glided into these reflections,
when he found himself sitting by the club-
house fire, surrounded by green smock-frocks and
shapeless hats: with Friar Bacon lively, busy,
and expert, at a little table near him.

"Now, then, come. The first five!" said Friar
Bacon. " Where are you?"

"Order!" cried a merry-faced little man, who
had brought his young daughter with him to see
life, and who always modestly hid his face in his
beer-mug after he had thus assisted the business.

"John Nightingale, William Thrush, Joseph
Blackbird, Cecil Robin, and Thomas Linnet!"
cried Friar Bacon.

"Here, sir!" and " Here, sir!" And Linnet,
Robin, Blackbird, Thrush, and Nightingale,
stood confessed.

We, the undersigned, declare, in effect, by
this written paper, that each of us is responsible
for the repayment of this pig-money by each of
the other. "Sure you understand, Nightingale?"

"Ees, sur."

"Can you write your name, Nightingale?"

"Na, sur."

Nightingale's eye upon his name, as Friar
Bacon wrote it, was a sight to consider in after
years. Rather incredulous was Nightingale,
with a hand at the corner of his mouth, and his
head on one side, as to those drawings really
meaning him. Doubtful was Nightingale
whether any virtue had gone out of him in that
committal to paper. Meditative was Nightingale
as to what would come of young Nightingale's
growing up to the acquisition of that art.
Suspended was the interest of Nightingale, when
his name was done— as if he thought the letters
were only sown, to come up presently in some
other form. Prodigious, and wrong-handed was
the cross made by Nightingale on much
encouragement— the strokes directed from him
instead of towards him; and most patient and
sweet-humoured was the smile of Nightingale
as he stepped back into a general laugh.

"OR—der!" cried the little man.
Immediately disappearing into his mug.

"Ralph Mangel, Roger Wurzel, Edward
Vetches, Matthew Carrot, and Charles Taters!"
said Friar Bacon.

' All here, sir."

' You understand it, Mangel?"

' Iss, sir, I unnerstaans it."

' Can you write your name, Mangel?"

' Iss, sir."

Breathless interest. A dense background of
smock-frocks accumulated behind Mangel, and
many eyes in it looked doubtfully at Friar Bacon,
as who should say, " Can he really though?"
Mangel put down his hat, retired a little to get
a good look at the paper, wetted his right hand
thoroughly by drawing it slowly across his mouth,
approached the paper with great determination,
flattened it, sat down at it, and got well to
his work. Circuitous and sea-serpent-like, were
the movements of the tongue of Mangel while
he formed the letters; elevated were the
eyebrows of Mangel and sidelong the eyes, as, with
his left whisker reposing on his left arm, they
followed his performance; many were the
misgivings of Mangel, and slow was his retrospective
meditation touching the junction of the letter
p with h; something too active was the big
forefinger of Mangel in its propensity to rub
out without proved cause. At last, long and
deep was the breath drawn by Mangel when
he laid down the pen; long and deep the
wondering breath drawn by the back ground—
as if they had watched his walking across the
rapids of Niagara, on stilts, and now cried, " He
has done it!"

But, Mangel was an honest man, if ever honest
man lived. " T'owt to be a hell, sir," said he,
contemplating his work, " and I ha' made a
t on't."

The over-fraught bosoms of the background
found relief in a roar of laughter.

"Or—DER!" cried the little man. "CHEER!"
And after that second word, came forth from his
mug no more.

Several other clubs signed, and received their
money. Very few could write their names; all
who could not, pleaded that they could not, more
or less sorrowfully, and always with a shake of
the head, and in a lower voice than their natural
speaking voice. Crosses could be made standing;