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 nowt 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 bunch 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 Annables’ Sunday dinner—albeit a portion was unluckily saved till Monday, providing undeniable proof of the theft. The owner of the rabbit had supposed the creature to have escaped. This peaceful supposition had been destroyed by the comb-bearer’s seeing her cat, scratching in the Annables garden, unearth the white and brown doe-skin, after which the trouble had begun.