they offered plenty of money with her. So he married, and ceasing to be their apprentice, became their brother-in-law and comrade.
After some time his wife said to him:
“It is bad living with these brothers of mine, who are thieves to the very bone. Moreover, you know the rhyme, ‘Though the thief may thrive for many a day, he becomes at last the hangman’s prey.’ So it is my wish and counsel that we separate from them at once and for ever, and go and live at your father’s house, where, though we may not be so rich, we shall at any rate be in peace.”
Tim approved of what she said, and communicated his intention to those honest gentlemen—his brothers-in-law. They were very much mortified at what he told them, and endeavoured to persuade him to stay with them, but in vain. At last they said:
“We will let you go on the following conditions: we will give you a swine, and if to-night we contrive to steal it from you, you shall pay us two hundred roubles, or remain in our service till you have gained for us that amount, and if we are unable to steal the swine, we will pay the same sum to you.”
“Very good,” said Tim, “I will see whether you can steal her away from me.”
Then he loaded a cart with his property, and set off with his wife to the house of his father.
As soon as he got home he mixed up in the trough a mess of barley-meal and wine for the pig, who, after gorging herself with it, became senselessly drunk. Tim, then, dressing her in a sarafan or woman’s long night-gown, placed her on the petsch or stove in a corner, where she stretched herself out and lay without motion. He then went to bed with his wife in the chamber above. They were scarcely asleep when the thieves arrived, and searched in every nook and corner round about the house, but not finding what they were in quest of, they repaired to the kitchen, and, listening, heard something snoring. Forthwith one of them crept in, and moving about softly touched the swine, but feeling the nightgown at the same time, he jumped out of the kitchen almost frightened out of his wits.
“Who are you?” cried his comrade.
“Your brother,” he replied. “Oh, I got into such a scrape. The thing which is snoring in the kitchen is the old beldame, Tim’s mother. I took hold of her by the side, but so softly that I did not wake her, and such a stench came from her that I really thought I should have fainted. Now, what to do I don’t know—but, stay! I will go and ask my sister where the swine is. Perhaps she will tell me whilst she is dozing.” He then climbed softly on the top of the chamber, removed a board from the roof, and, poking his sister gently with his stick, said: “Wife! where did we put the sow?”
“Don’t you remember,” said she, “that we placed her in the kitchen, on the petsch, dressed in a night-gown?”
No sooner did the thief hear this than he sprang like a madman from the roof, and rushing into the kitchen, dragged off from the petsch the drunken swine. He and his brother then lugged her away from the house, and when they had got to some distance, they tied her feet together, and thrusting a stick under, they carried her off on their shoulders at full trot. This riding on a stick—which was very different from lying in a cradle—soon brought the sow to her senses, who began to behave in a very obstreperous and disagreeable manner, and the faster they went the more obstreperous and disagreeable did she become. The thieves now began to repent of the expedient which they had devised for bringing back Tim to their society; but, fearing to lose two hundred roubles, they bore all the nuisance of the swine, and hastened on their way.
Tim awoke a little time after the swine had been carried away, and, being quite drowsy, clean forgot what he had done with her.
“Wife! wife!” cried he, jogging his bed-fellow on the side with his elbow, “where did we hide the swine?”
“How long is it,” said she, “since you asked me that? Did I not tell you that she lies on the petsch in the night-gown?”
“When did you tell me that?” cried he.
“Not long ago,” said she; “but no doubt you were drowsy.”
“Now, farewell to our swine!” said Tim. “No doubt they have taken her away.” And springing from the bed he ran into the kitchen. But found no swine upon the petsch. Tim felt his knees quake under him. But the prospect of living with the thieves, as their slave, compelled him to cast aside all useless despondency, and to seek a remedy for the misfortune. Flinging himself upon his horse he galloped off in the hope of overtaking the travelling swine, in which he succeeded. He came up with the party just as they were entering the wood, and rode gently after them; the night, which was exceedingly dark, preventing the thieves from seeing him. By this time they were excessively weary, and wishing to take some rest, they flung the swine upon the ground in a rage, and one of them said:
“What a weight! It’s enough to kill one! Yet one must not mind toiling when two hundred roubles are at stake.”
Quoth the other: “I would almost give up the roubles for a horse or something to carry this load of carrion for us.”
Meanwhile, Tim, leading his horse some way aside, tied it to a tree, then drawing softly nigh he began to make a jingling with the bridle and stirrups which he had taken off the horse. One of the thieves hearing the jingling said:
“Listen, brother! some horse is going about entangled in its harness.”
As Tim still continued jingling, one of them fully persuaded that there was a horse close at hand set off to catch it, whilst the other rested himself sitting close by the swine. Tim moved on before the thief, who followed, expecting every moment to lay his hand upon the strayed horse. Imperceptibly he led him to a great distance, and then leaving him hurried back to the other. When he was not more than twenty yards from him he stopped and cried:
“Pray, brother, come and help me to untie this accursed brute.”
