“Drowned, young mester! Nay, not they. Plenty o’ room for em up in the runs where the watter won’t come.”
“But the foxes, and hares, and things?” cried Dick.
“Them as has got wings is flied awayer,” growled the second man; “them as has got paddles is swimmed; and them as can’t find the dry patches is gone down.”
After this oracular utterance John o’ the Warren, who took his popular name from the rabbit homes, to the exclusion of his proper surname of Searby, tramped heavily after his companion to the Priory kitchen, where they both worried a certain amount of bread and cheese, and muttered to one another over some ale, save when Dick spoke to them and told them of his anxieties, when each man gave him a cheery smile.
“Don’t yow fret, lad,” said Dave. “Bahds is all reight. They wean’t hoort. Wait till watter goos down a bit and you an’ me’ll have rare sport.”
“Ay, and rabbuds is all reight too, young mester,” added John Warren. “They knows the gainest way to get up stairs. They’re all happed up warm in their roons, ready to come out as soon as the watter goos down.”
“But how did it happen?”
“Happen, lad!” said the two men in a breath.
“Yes; what caused the flood?”
“Oh, I d’n’know,” growled Dave slowly. “Happen sea-bank broke to show folk as fen warn’t niver meant to be drained, eh, John Warren?”