So far I had seen no pig, and I began to think they must all be
feeding on the other side of the island. I turned to go back, and
at that moment I heard an outcry in the bushes and Benjy came
tearing out at the heels of a fine young porker. I threw up my gun
to fire, but the evolutions of Benjy and the pig were such that I
was as likely to hit one as the other. The pig, of course, made
desperate efforts to escape from the cul-de-sac in which he found
himself. His only hope was to get back into the woods on the
point. Benjy kept him headed off successfully, and I began to edge
up, watching my chance for a shot. Suddenly the pig came dashing
straight toward me--oblivious, I suppose, to everything but the
white snapping terror at his heels. Taken by surprise, I
fired--and missed. The pig shot between my knees, Benjy after him.
I withstood the shock of the pig, but not of Benjy. I fell,
clawing wildly, into a matted mass of creepers that covered the
ground beside me.
I got to my feet quickly, dragging the whole mass of vines up with
me. Then I saw that they had covered a curiously regular little
patch of ground, outlined at intervals with small stones. At one
end was a larger stone.
The patch was narrow, about six feet long--instantly suggestive of
a grave. But swift beyond all process of reason was the certainty
that flashed into my mind.
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