"What's the matter?" some of them asked.
"Why," whined Porter, "he promised to bring me back a rabbit this term, and now he pretends he does not know anything about it. Make him say what he's done with it!"
Mr. Bultitude was not usually ready of resource, but now he had what seemed a happy thought.
"Gad!" he cried, pretending to recollect it, "so I did—to be sure, a rabbit, of course, how could I forget it? It's—it's a splendid rabbit. I'll go and fetch it!"
"Will you?" cried Porter, half relieved. "Where is it, then?"
"Where?" said Paul sharply (he was growing positively brilliant). "Why, in my playbox to be sure; where should it be?"
"It isn't in your playbox, I know," put in Siggers: "because I saw it turned out yesterday and there was no rabbit then. Besides, how could a rabbit live in a playbox? He's telling lies. I can see it by his face. He hasn't any rabbit!"
"Of course I haven't!" said Mr. Bultitude. "How should I? I'm not a conjurer. It's not a habit of mine to go about with rabbits concealed on my person. What's the use of coming to me like this? It's absurd, you know; perfectly absurd!"
The crowd increased until there was quite a ring formed round Mr. Bultitude and the indignant claimant, and presently Tipping came bustling up.
"What's the row here, you fellows?" he said. "Bultitude again, of course. What's he been doing now?"