“Not they,” said Peter, with something approaching a chuckle. “They’re altogether too many for her.”
“She’s not a pretty cat,” said Lilac doubtfully.
“Well, n–no,” said Peter, turning round to look at Tib with some regret in his tone. “She ain’t not to say exactly pretty, but she’s a rare one for rats. Ain’t ye, Tib?”
As if in reply Tib rose, fixed her front claws in the ground, and stretched her long lean body. She was not pretty, the most favourable judge could not have called her so. Her coat was harsh and wiry, her head small and mean, with ears torn and scarred in many battles. Her one eye, fiercely green, seemed to glare in an unnaturally piercing manner, but this was only because she was always on the lookout for her enemies—the rats. To complete her forlorn appearance she had only half a tail, and it was from this loss that her friendship with Peter dated, for he had rescued her from a trap.
He seemed now to feel that her character needed defence, for he went on after a pause:
“She’ll sit an’ watch for ’em to come out of the ricks by the hour, without ever tasting food. Better nor any tarrier she is at it.”
“Ben says the rats is awful bad,” said Lilac. “They’re that bold they’ll steal the eggs, and scare off the hens when they’re setting.”
“They do that,” replied Peter, shaking his head. “The poultry wants seeing to badly; but Bella she don’t seem to take to it, nor yet Agnetta, and our hands is full outside.”
“I like the chickens and ducks and things,” said Lilac. “I wish Aunt’d let me take ’em in hand.”
Peter reared himself up from his bent position, and holding the big nosegay in one hand looked gravely down at his cousin.