He winked and remarked, "Now, how many do you think I've
had this month?"
"How many what?"
"You know. Rabbits. Guess."
I tried, and failed. The Consumptive whispered, "Well, I keeps count,
just the same as a shopkeeper, and as true as I'm a living man I've
taken two hundred and fifty out of that park, and averaged tenpence for
'em."
"With the one bitch?"
"No. I've got a pup from her--such a pup. The old 'un's taught the baby,
and I swear I'll never let that pup come out in daylight. They work
together, and nothing can get away."
This astounding statement was true to the letter. The dogs were like
imps for cunning; they would hide skilfully at the very sound of a
strange footstep, and they would retrieve for miles if necessary. I may
say that I have seen them at work, and I earnestly wish that Frank
Buckland could have been there.
The Consumptive is a dissolute, drunken fellow, whose life is certainly
not noble. Fancy being maintained in idleness by a couple of dogs! But
the park is there, and the man cannot help stealing.
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