“Perhaps if it’s so sad he may not want to tell us,” suggested Buddie, who was beginning to feel a bit tearful herself.
“Oh, he likes to talk about it,” said the Rabbit. “Everybody likes to talk about his own affairs. There’s my nose, for instance. Go on, old fellow. ‘I was born—’”
The Guinea-Pig dried his eyes with the back of his paw, sniffed once or twice and began:
“I was born in a large wire cage, in a doctor’s office, at the age of one.”
“How could you be?” Buddie interrupted. “You couldn’t be one year old when you were born, you know.”
“He means one second,” explained the Rabbit. “Don’t interrupt, or he’ll start bawling again.”
“Next door to us lived another family of guinea-pigs,” went on Brown Eyes. “There were two daughters—one of them the sweetest, dearest—”
Here the Guinea-Pig broke down, and it was some time before he was able to resume his story.
“One day some visitors came to the office, and the doctor took me out and exhibited me to them. ‘Is he old enough to kill?’ asked one of the visitors. ‘Just the right age and weight, two hundred and fifty grams,’ replied the doctor. And before I could realize the meaning of these dreadful words he seized a glittering instrument and plunged it into my body.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Buddie, horrified. A warning glance from the Rabbit checked further comment.