I can still see Sam, a clear-cut figure, swinging from an overhead bough which he had grasped just in time to save himself from the plunging, foam-scattering boar that in another second would have had his life. But the beginning of the day was calm enough. For some time I had heard talk of my claim as a fund-producing property which, if looked after as it should be, would enable me to buy out the County Bank as soon as I chose. My predecessor had imported a few Berkshires and Poland Chinas to mix with the wild breed, and the result, Len assured me, was “the best mixtry in the mountains.” Quality had been improved without unfitting the hogs for hardy life on the ridges. Acorns were abundant; sprouting chestnuts could be uprooted until late in the spring. By taking the hogs in midwinter, before the mast began to grow scant, one could find them fairly fat, and two or three weeks in the pen, with plenty of corn to crunch, would make the meat sweet and marketable. Whenever things looked expensively blue on the farm there was always some one to remind me cheerfully of my wild hogs that could be “fotched in an’ cashed quick as nothin’.” We were having some bright, windless days in January, and Len said to me wistfully: “Ain’t this the hog-huntin’ time, though?” I was getting close to the wall as to ways and means, so I answered: “Very well, Len. Tell Sam about it and get ready for a round-up to-morrow.” He was delighted. “I jest been achin’ to git into the woods,” he said. “There’ll be a lot o’ young-uns to mark. ’Course you know what yer mark is, Mis’ Dolly?” I didn’t, and he apologized for my ignorance in a matter so vital. “A woman kain’t be expected to know ever’thing ’bout the hog business. Yer mark is an undercrap in the right year an’ two main smart slits in the top o’ the left. Ag Snead’s got a mark nearly like yorn, only they’s a slit in the right an’ a crap too. It’s a top slit, an’ ever’ hog that’s got the top o’ his year torn off ol’ Ag drives in fer his’n. An’ they’s mainly yorn, Mis’ Dolly.” “But how do they get their ears torn off?” “Dogs. We have to ketch ’em with a dog, an’ he gits ’em by the year. Sometimes a blame hog’ll leave part of his year with the dog an’ go on. I’ve hearn ol’ Ag’ll sic his dogs onto yore mark, hopin’ to tear a year off an’ claim the hog, an’ I wouldn’t put it past him.” “That’s rascality, Len, and Mr. Snead is a deacon.” “Law, when a man goes hog-huntin’ he puts his ’ligion in the cupboard, so it won’t git hurt while he’s out.” “Those hogs are mine. I’m going to have a talk with neighbor Snead.” Len was startled. “Lord-a-mercy! This here’s a country where you kain’t call a man a hog-thief an’ git home by sundown.” “I won’t call him a thief.” “No, I reckon you’ll jest inquire ef he’s got any o’ yore hogs in his pen.” Noting that I duly crumpled, he became protective as usual. “You see, Mis’ Dolly, they ain’t any way to ’proach a man on sech a subject, less’n yer carryin’ a good gun.”