Kitty's enemy

by Eleanora H. Stooke

But how? That was the question occupying his mind all that afternoon which he spent in company with Bob Glanville. He could not ask for the basket, he did not like to take it, and he was sorely puzzled what to do. He was aware that Kitty still suspected him of knowing how her first rabbit had met with its death; and now he was friendly with the Glanvilles, he was more than ever anxious that they should not learn the truth, which, he believed, if they knew, they would never speak to him again. He was appeased to see how fond Kitty was growing of her new pet, and thought regretfully of the circumstances which had prevented his acknowledging that he had bought it for her. But he still hesitated to set the matter on a right footing, doubting if his word would be taken against that of Tom Hatch, of whom Kitty now always spoke with the deepest gratitude, which made it all the more difficult for Tim to undeceive her and declare that Bob's school-fellow, on whose kindness and generosity she was continually harping, had gone from his promise.

Saturday was always the busiest day of the week at B—, and on this afternoon the streets were thronged with farmers who jostled good-naturedly against each other as they discussed cattle and crops, whilst their wives and daughters stood behind the long rows of stalls, in the butter and poultry market, gossiping and doing business by turns.

"I always like the town best on a market day," remarked Bob to Tim, as they stood watching a cheap-jack selling umbrellas, and marvelling at his flow of words, which never seemed to fail. "It's fun watching the country people; they seem to be having such a good time. Oh, I say, Shuttleworth, do look at that old chap over there with those white rats. You haven't seen him, have you? Let us go and watch what he is doing. He's here every week."

They elbowed their way through the crowd until they found themselves close to a stall, behind which a hook-nosed old man, whom Tim recognised at once as Mr. Jacob Dottin, was haranguing several young farmers who were listening and laughing. Out of a box he had taken several white rats, one of which had perched itself on his shoulder, whilst another had hidden in his sleeve and the head of a third peeped out of the breast pocket of his coat; and ranged before him on the stall were scores of little blue paper packets.

"Isn't he a queer old chap?" whispered Bob. "His name is Dottin, and he has a shop in the place—in a back street it is."

"I know," Tim responded. "I've seen it. I suppose he is trying to see those rats?"

"Yes; and he sells rat poison, too—some patent stuff he makes himself. See, that farmer is going to have several packets. I'm not afraid of rats, but I shouldn't care to let them run over me like that, should you?"

Tim was about to reply when Mr. Dottin caught sight of him and recognised him with a most affable nod.

"You know him?" Bob exclaimed in surprise, as Tim, colouring, returned the old man's salutation.

"Yes," Tim answered, moving away from the stall, for he did not wish to give Mr. Dottin an opportunity of speaking to him, fearing he might refer, in Bob's presence, to the purchase of the rabbit. "I was standing outside his shop one day last week when he came out and invited me to look at his 'little family,' as he called his animals."