Mr. Bultitude had hardly got clear of the groups scattered about the field, when he met a small flaxen-haired boy, who was just coming down to join the game. It was Porter, his neighbour of the German lesson.
"There you are, Bultitude, then," he said in his squeaky voice: "I want you."
"I can't stop," said Paul, "I'm in a hurry—another time."
"Another time won't do," said little Porter, laying hold of him by his jacket. "I want that rabbit."
This outrageous demand took Mr. Bultitude's breath away. He had no idea what rabbit was referred to, or why he should be required to produce such an animal at a moment's notice. This was the second time an inconvenient small boy had interfered between him and liberty. He would not be baffled twice. He tried to shake off his persecutor.
"I tell you, my good boy, I haven't such a thing about me. I haven't indeed. I don't even know what you're talking about."
This denial enraged Porter.
"I say, you fellows," he called out, "come here! Do make Bultitude give me my rabbit. He says he doesn't know anything about it now!"
At this several of the loungers came up, glad of a distraction.