Page:The White Peacock, Lawrence, 1911.djvu/287

Rh place vibrated with the sound of a woman’s powerful voice, propped round by several others, singing:

“At ’even ’ere the sun was set——”

Everybody hurried towards the new noise, save the policeman with his captives, the woman with the squint, and the woman with the family comb. I told the limb of the law he’d better get rid of the two boys and find out what mischief the others were after.

Then I enquired of the woman with the squint what was the matter.

“Thirty-seven young uns ’an we ’ad from that doe, an’ there’s no knowin’ ’ow many more, if they ’adn’t a-gone an’ ate-n ’er,” she replied, lapsing, now her fury was spent, into sullen resentment.

“An’ niver a word should we a’ known,” added the family-comb-bearer, “but for that blessed cat of ourn, as scrat it up.”

“Indeed,” said I, “the rabbit?”

“No, there were nöwt left but th’ skin—they’d seen ter that, a thieving, dirt-eatin’ lot.”

“When was that?” said I.

“This mortal night—an’ there was th’ head an’ th’ back in th’ dirty stewpot—I can show you this instant—I’ve got ’em in our pantry for a proof, ’aven’t I, Martha?”

“A fat lot o’ good it is—but I’ll rip th’ neck out of ’im, if ever I lay ’ands on ’im.”

At last I made out that Samuel had stolen a large, lop-eared doe out of a hutch in the coal-house of the squint-eyed lady, had skinned it, buried the skin, and offered his booty to his mother as a wild rabbit, trapped. The doe had been the chief item of the