"What's the trouble?" asked Ammon, hurrying to Wesley.
"Cholera!" groaned Sinton. "My hogs are dying like flies."
Margaret was softly crying. "Wesley, can't I fix something hot? Can't we do anything? It means several hundred dollars and our winter meat."
"I never saw stock taken so suddenly and so hard," said Wesley. "I have 'phoned for the veterinary to come as soon as he can get here."
All of them hurried to the feeding pen into which the pigs seemed to be gathering from the woods. Among the common stock were big white beasts of pedigree which were Wesley's pride at county fairs. Several of these rolled on their backs, pawing the air feebly and emitting little squeaks. A huge Berkshire sat on his haunches slowly shaking his head, the water dropping from his eyes, until he, too, rolled over with faint grunts. A pair crossing the yard on wavering legs collided, and attacked each other in anger, only to fall, so weak they scarcely could squeal. A fine snowy Plymouth Rock rooster after several attempts, flew to the fence, balanced with great effort, wildly flapped his wings and started to emit a guttural crow, but broke off and fell sprawling among the pigs, too helpless to stand.
"Did you ever see such a dreadful sight?" sobbed Margaret.
Billy climbed on the fence, took one long look and turned an astounded face to Wesley.
