Liam O'Flaherty - Irish Portraits - 14 Short Stories

They prepared a tub of hot water and went to the sty at the back of the cabin to wash the pigs. The sty was a little square hut covered with a sloping roof of zinc with a little square yard in front, floored with concrete and surrounded by a high double stone fence. As soon as they entered the yard, three pigs rushed out grunting, with their snouts in the air smelling. Mary emptied a pail of mashed potatoes and sour milk in the trough in the middle of the yard, and the pigs dived into it biting one another. Then she and her husband began to wash them with soapy water.

“They are three fine pigs, God bless them,” said Michael.

“How much are you going to ask for them?” said Mary. The tender tone had left her voice now. It had a businesslike ring.

Michael scratched his beard.

“It would be a mortal sin to take a penny less than sixteen pounds.”

“Say fifteen pounds ten, Michael. He’d never give more than that.”

“I won’t cross yer word, Mary. Fifteen pound ten it is.”

They finished washing the pigs and came back to the cabin. Mary hurried about, sweeping the earthen floor and the hearth, polishing the dresser and tidying the pots that lay against the back door.

Suddenly Michael, who was standing at the door, looking out, said: “Hist, here he is up the road,” “Lord save us,” said Mary. “You better go and have a look at the sheep. It’s always best to pretend not to expect him. Stay away an hour.” She bundled him out of the cabin hurriedly and then sat on a stool by the dresser, knitting.

Presently the pig-jobber came up the yard, shouting loudly to somebody, who was a long way off, about the weather. He walked very fast and with an air of being rushing around all the time, oppressed with business. He was a small man, with grey chin whiskers, a crooked red nose, with a great red knob stuck between his two eyes, on account of a fall from a cliff. His left leg had been broken in the same fall, and it bent outwards in a semicircle as he walked. “God save all here,” he said, coming into the cabin.

“And you, too,” said Mary. “Ye’re welcome, Peter Mullen. Take a seat by the fire here. Well, now, and how’s your family?”

“Splendid, Mrs. Derrane, and how’s Michael?”

“Oh, sure there’s no use complaining, but I’m glad to see ye.”

The jobber sat by the hearth and began lighting his pipe while Mary bustled, filling the kettle with water. When the jobber saw her approaching the fire with it he expostulated.

“Now, Mary, don’t offer me anything, I -”

“Oh, will ye hold yer whist; sure ye wouldn’t think of leaving my house without tasting something, if it were only a mouthful of tea.”

“Well, well, now,” said the jobber with a laugh, “it is kind mother for you to be hospitable.”

There was silence for a minute, while Mary began to lay the table.

“Where is Michael?” said the jobber, at length.

“Oh, he is out somewhere,” said Mary casually. “Ye didn’t want him, did ye?”

“No-o,” said the jobber, heaving a sigh. “I was just passing, so I thought I might look at his slips of pigs. I might need a few shortly. Though your pigs are very young, I hear.”

“Well, we aren’t thinking of selling them for another month or so, but sure you can have a look at them. Or maybe ye’d rather wait for himself. He’ll be in any minute.”

The jobber tapped nervously with his stick, obviously anxious to get away, but Mary kept chattering unconcernedly about everything. The kettle boiled. The tea was made. The jobber supped his tea hurriedly and swallowed an egg and ate some griddle cake. Still there was no sign of Michael.

“I’m afraid I must be going,” he said.

“Oh, sit down, man,” said Mary, “he’ll be in any minute. Sure it’s not afraid you are that he’d think you were courting me.”

They both laughed and the jobber sat down again, and Mary kept chattering, until at last Michael, who had been sitting in a neighbouring cottage, came in.

“Ha, my soul from the devil!” he cried, “I’m glad to see you Peter Mullen.”

“I thought I’d see how your slips of pigs are getting on,” said the jobber.

“Slips d’ye call them, Peter?” cried Michael. “I’ll lay my oath there aren’t three better pigs in the island. But I’m not selling them yet, for all that. But sure you can have a look at them.”

The three of them went out to the pigsty and enterd the yard. The pigs were lying on their sides in the sun. They grunted, but did not rise. The jobber beat them with his stick and they struggled to their feet.

“They’re not bad slips, God bless them,” said the jobber. He walked around them several times. Then he measured the girth of each with his arms. Then he felt their hips, their flanks, their ears, pulled their tails, and laid his stick along their backs measuring them. Then he stood with his arms folded, looking at the ground.

“Well,” said Michael, “what do you think of them?”

The jobber shook his head, took his pipe from his pocket and stuck his finger down the bowl. Then he tapped the ground three times with his stick and then leaned on it.

It was a habit he had.

“There is no fall to their flank,” he said.

“No fall to their flank!” cried Michael, curling his nether lip outwards and wrinkling his forehead.

“Why, where did you ever see a flank like that? And look at their thighs. Why, man, you could take shelter on a rainy day under their thighs. Look at that clear skin. Did you ever see an ear like that, as transparent as running water. There’s a snout for you, as well moulded as a blood mare’s nostrils. Why, man, they are -”

“Now don’t be talking,” interrupted the jobber. “A pig is a pig and weight is weight. Where is their weight, will ye tell me?”

“Is it their weight that’s troubling ye? Well, now, I am surprised that a knowledgeable man like yerself would talk that way. Sure ye’re not thinking that a sloppy, grease-swilling pig would weigh as heavy as a tight, well-balanced pig that’s fed with the hand on the cleanest sour milk and the best of potatoes and the best bran that could be bought for money. Listen to what I’m going to tell ye. There isn’t a loose inch in one of them three pigs. Their flesh is so packed that you couldn’t drive a spear through it What man? Is it out of your senses you are?”

“Oh, hold yer whist, will ye, Michael Derrane,” said the jobber, moving out towards the door of the yard.

“Don’t try to tell me anything about a pig.” He rushed back and hit one of the pigs on the hind hoof with his stick. “D’ye see that hoof?” he cried. “But ye’re young yet. Ye’re young, and ye have a lot to learn.”

“What’s the matter with that hoof?” cried Michael and Mary together.

“That’s the surest sign of a pig’s weight,” said the jobber, leaning learnedly on his stick with his crooked leg thrust out. “If a hoof is not spread, there is no weight in the pig.”

“Arrah, go away with ye,” said Michael.

“If he doesn’t like them, why doesn’t he leave them?” cried Mary. “I hope ye’re not thinking of selling them, Michael. Take care, would you. The bran will last another month.”

“Listen here,” said Michael, striking his right fist into his left palm, “listen here.”

“Now, wait a minute,” said the jobber, seizing his beard in his hand and looking at Michael, “I am a man of one word. Is fifteen pounds the price of the pigs as they stand or is it not?”

“It isn’t,” said Michael shortly. “I wouldn’t sell them for a penny less than sixteen pounds, if I were so long without bread that I’d mistake a dogfish for a wheaten loaf.”

“Well, now, that settles it,” said the jobber, spitting on the crutch of his stick and setting off out of the yard in an awful hurry