At last I hit upon a plan.

I threw the turnips down to them; then I got an axe from the woodshed, and hurried round by way of the cart door to the cellar.

While the hogs were ravenously devouring the turnips, I chopped a hole in the side of the pen, through which I pulled out little Ike.

He was a sorry sight.

His thin little arms were bleeding where the hogs had bitten him, and he was so dirty that I could hardly recognize him.