“Why, a pig is so very valuable to a poor labouring man, and it is so very difficult for him at this time of the year to get money enough to buy one, that I lend him a pound for the purpose. But, I do it in this way. I leave such of the club members as choose it and desire it, to form themselves into parties of five. To every man 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.”