"I don't care if it is," answered Alf stoutly. "It's nice."
"'E likes it because it makes him cry," jeered Stanley.
The girl started to play, her back to the congregation.
They sang two verses with round mouths, Jerry and Stanley shouting against each other aggressively and wagging their heads. The third verse went less well. There were interruptions. The voices grew ragged. Jerry spoke; somebody whistled; and the singing ran away into giggles.
Boy swung round.
The cause of the merriment was sufficiently obvious.
A lop-eared Belgian rabbit was hopping across the floor, entirely self-complacent and smug. As the sound of singing, which had covered him like a garment, died away in smothered titters, he sat up on his hind-legs and stared about him.
The girl descended from the platform, caught the rabbit by the ears and suspended him.
Tame as a cow, he made no resistance.
"Who's is this hare?" she asked.