rotten in the wet before we got some more young pigs."

"Was that Miss Battersby's idea?"

"No, it wasn't. Cattersby wouldn't think of anything half so useful.
All she cares about is sums and history and lessony things. It was Tom
Kitterick who put it there, and I helped him. Tom Kitterick is the boy
who cleans the boots and pumps the water. It was that time," she
added, "that I got paint all over my blue dress. She said it was Tom
Kitterick's fault."

"It may have been," I said, "partly. Anyhow Tom Kitterick is a
red-haired, freckly youth. It wouldn't do him any harm to be slanged a
bit for something."

"It's a jolly sight better to have freckles, even if you come out all
over like a turkey egg, than to go rubbing stinking stuff on your face
at night. That's what Cattersby does. I caught her at it."

Miss Battersby has a nice, smooth complexion and is, 'no doubt, quite
justified in doing her best to preserve it. But I did not argue the
point with Lalage. A discussion might have led to further revelations of
intimate details of the lady's toilet. I was young in those days and I
rather prided myself on being a gentleman. I changed the subject.

"Perhaps," I said, "you will now tell me why you have brought me here.
Are we to have a picnic tea in the pigs' trough?"

Lalage crawled past me. She had to crawl, for there was not room in
the sty for even a child to stand upright. She took out of the trough
a bundle of papers, pierced at the top left-hand corner and tied with a
slightly soiled blue ribbon. She handed it to me and I looked it over.
It was, apparently, a manuscript magazine modelled on those sold at
railway bookstalls for sixpence. It was called, as I might have guessed,
the _Anti-Cat_. The table of contents promised the following reading
matter:

1. Editor's Chat.

2. Poetry--A Farewell. To be recited in her presence.

3. The Ignominy of Having a Governess.

4. Prize Competition for the Best Insult Story.

"You can enter for that if you like," said Lalage, who had been
following my eyes down the page.

"I shall," I said, "if she insults me; but she never has yet."

"Nor she won't," said Lalage. "She'll be honey to you. That's one of the
worst things about her. She's a hypocrite. I loathe hypocrites, don't
you?"

I returned to the table of contents:

5. On Sneaking--First Example.

6. Our Tactics, by the Editor.

"She won't insult you," said Lalage. "She s