He was a very ugly rat.
"Tommy!" said the poet again, weakly.
The rat was making for a bit of crumbled bank opposite, and Tommy stood up for better aim. The poet held his breath.
One foot more and the prey would be lost, but Tommy stood like a young statue—then whang; and slowly the rat turned over on his back and vanished from sight, to float presently—a swollen corpse—down the quiet stream.
"Well hit, sir," cried the poet.
Tommy turned with dancing eyes.
"Jolly nearly lost him," he said. "You should just see young Collins with a catty. He's miles better than me."
But the poet had remembered himself.
"Tommy," he said, huskily, "I—I don't approve of sport of this kind. Cannot you aim at—at inanimate objects?"