The little hen wove a precarious path through coops of chattering chickens, and Snatchet, bent upon his prey, added to the din. He had no way of knowing the twists and turns to be taken by his small brown victim, and it was only by making sharp corners that Queen Bess kept clear of the snapping teeth. Men were running to and fro for something to beat off the yellow invader. The girl's voice had settled to a cry, and, just as Flukey, panting and tired, reached the dog, Snatchet snapped up the hen, shook her fiercely, and settled down to his meal. In an instant Flukey had dragged the beating body from his teeth, kicked him soundly with his bare foot, and held out the dead hen to a man whose face was darkened by anger. The young mistress of the feathered queen was clinging, sobbing, to his hand. "Is that your dog?" Flea heard the man ask, pointing to Snatchet under the squatter boy's arm. "Yep." "Do you understand that he killed my little girl's prize hen?" "The dog ought to die, too!" cried a voice from the people. Her brother's sorrowful attitude made Flea press Flukey's arm soothingly. "So he ought to die!" said another. "He were hungry," explained Flukey, turning on Snatchet's accuser. "Mister, if ye'll let my dorg live--" Before he could finish the child had interrupted him. "That dog ought to die for killing my Bess!" Flea pushed past Flukey and stood before the little girl. "Kid, I don't blame ye for cryin' for yer hen," she began; "but my brother ain't got no dog but Snatchet, an' if ye'll let him live I'll give ye this bit of gold I got for catchin' the pig." A murmur followed her words, and the tears dried in the blue eyes looking up at her. "Here little 'un, chuck it in yer pocket," said Flea, straightening her shoulders, "and it'll buy another hen." So the jury which had sat for a moment upon the precious life of Snatchet brought in a verdict of "not guilty," and the squatter children turned to find something to eat for the quartet of empty stomachs. Out of sight of Dryden, they sat down beside the road, and Flea looked the pig over. "Ye has to tie a piece of cord to his leg, Kid," cautioned Flukey; "'cause he'll get away if ye don't. Ain't he fine?" "The finest pig in this here world," responded Flea. "Ye ain't got no rag what'll wipe off some of this grease, have ye, Fluke?" "Nope; but ye can scrape it off with a stick or a rock. Here, ye hold him tight while I dig at him." For about twenty minutes they busied themselves with cleaning the suckling, laughing at his wriggles and squeaks. "What'll we call him?" asked Flea. "Squeaky," said Flukey, "that's what the man called out." "Aw, that ain't nice enough for me! I'll call him Prince, and ye call him Squeaky--Prince Squeaky," she ended, knotting the cord Flukey had given her about the short hind leg of the animal. "And we be rich," she declared later, "'most five dollars, a pig, and Snatchet, and yer leg's well. It don't hurt a bit, do it?"