The swine driver received these presents with much condescension, but said it was necessary they agree that the pig be weighed, as that would be a means of ascertaining how he fared during his stay with the lonely woman. This point being settled satisfactorily, the pig answered to his name, and ran to his master with the docility of a spaniel. And now, amidst the loudest of squeals his lungs were capable of, his hind legs were secured and his body hung suspended by the steelyards, the dog in the meantime keeping up a loud barking, and threatening to make ribbons of the major’s coat-tails for taking such improper liberties with his friend. “Eighty-four pounds, exactly,” muttered the drover, counting the notches upon his steelyards as the major bagged his pet, who continued to give out so many squeals of distress that the sagacious dog seized the major by the broad disc of his pantaloons, and so rent them that he swore none but his wife, Polly Potter, had ever seen him in such a plight. Nevertheless, he placed the pig safely upon his wagon, and having mended the breach in his dignity with a few pins, proceeded on his journey, in what he considered a good condition. “To be torn to pieces by a blasted dog! He didn’t know me, though, poor brute,” muttered the major, rubbing the injured parts with his left hand, and tossing his head in caution of what might be expected another time.
Which treats of how major Potter arrived in Barnstable, and sundry other queer things, without which this history would not be perfect.