Several weeks passed by before my uncle thought it safe to take the splints from piggy's leg; during which I fed and tended him constantly. During this time also, the doctor discovered that the fall had injured his spine too, which he said would prevent his growing much, and would cause his shoulders to gradually hump up.
Sure enough, it was not long before we noticed that a regular hump had begun to form, just behind his shoulders, which led to his being called Humpy. My father first called him so in sport, and though at first I was very indignant, because it seemed like making light of the poor little fellow's misfortunes; yet the name got fastened on to him, in spite of Horace and me, and finally we fell in with the rest, and called him Humpy too.
In the mean time, by his patience and gentleness through all his long, tedious illness, by his quick appreciation of kindness and bright intelligence, he had made himself the favorite of the whole household--even of my father, who usually declared pigs to be "disgusting." Still I continued to be his special and particular friend; next to me came Horace, and we two gave him his baths in warm soap-suds, two or three times a week, which always pleased him amazingly, and kept him as clean as a baby. He would follow me like a dog, through the garden, all over the house, up and down stairs, pat, pat, pat, and if I did not notice him frequently, he would set up a funny little squeal, and crowd right against my heels. I frequently woke from my afternoon naps that summer, and found him snuggled down by my side. I taught him to stand up on his hind legs, and beg for pears and apples, and to lie down and pretend to be dead, and several other funny tricks. I frequently took him with me when I went to ride. He never could be prevailed upon to lie down, at such times, but would insist upon standing on the floor of the vehicle, where he would pitch and stagger about in a way very funny to see.
All the dogs, and cats and everything and everybody about our establishment, seemed to have a kindly feeling toward Humpy, with the exception of a little bantam hen of mine. She for some reason, possibly because she was rearing her first brood of chickens, took a dislike to him and flew at him every time he came in her neighborhood. One day as Horace and Wangie were sitting at dinner and I was blowing soap-bubbles out of the window, we heard a terrible squealing in the hen-yard, and on rushing out to see what was the matter, found the little bantam perched on Humpy's back, pecking away at his ears, like the little shrew that she was, and he, the little simpleton, was standing stock still, and squealing for dear life. Horace speedily rescued him from his perilous situation, but it was a long time before he could be coaxed into the hen-yard again.