Michel scratched his head. ‘It was he all the same,’ he said, and he went to look at Pritchard.
‘Oh, sir!’ he said, ‘I was right. The gentleman he took the hare from has shot him. His hind-leg is all over blood. Look! there is M. Charpillon running after his hare.’
‘You know that I have just put some pellets into your Pritchard?’ Charpillon called out as soon as he saw me.
‘You did quite right.’
‘He carried off my hare.’
‘There! You see,’ said Michel, ‘it is impossible to cure him.’
‘But when he carried away your hare, he must have had it in his mouth?’
‘Of course. Where else would he have it?’
‘But how could he howl with a hare in his mouth?’
‘He put it down to howl, then he took it up again and made off.’