' 'Old still!' said Lucy. 'I ain't gon' 'urtcher!'
She went back to the house, carrying the rabbit.
'What you bin up to, eh?' said her father, boots scratch scratch over the tiles. 'Look at yore feet! En I told you - Wha' got there then?'
'Rabbit,' said Lucy, defensively.
'In yer night-dress an' all, catch yore bloomin' death! Wha' want with 'im, then?'
'Goner keep 'im.'
'You ain't!'
'Ah, Dad. 'E's nice.'
' 'E won't be n' bloomin' good t' yer. You put 'im in 'utch 'e'll only die. You can't keep woild rabbit. 'N if 'e gets out 'e'll do all manner o' bloomin' 'arm.'
'But 'e's bad, Dad. Cat's bin at 'im.'
'Cat was doin' 'is job then. Did oughter've let 'im finish be roights.'
'I wanner show 'im to Doctor.'
'Doctor's got summin' better to do than bide about wi' old rabbit. You jus' give 'im 'ere now.'
Lucy began to cry. She had not lived all her life on a farm for nothing and she knew very well that everything her father had said was right. But she was upset by the idea of killing the rabbit in cold blood. True, she did not really know what she could do with it in the long run. What she wanted was to show it to Doctor. She knew that Doctor thought of her as a proper farm girl - a country girl. When she showed him things she had found - a goldfinch's egg, a Painted Lady fluttering in a jam-jar or a fungus that looked exactly like orange peel - he took her seriously and talked to her as he would to a grown-up person. To ask his advice about a damaged rabbit and discuss it with him would be very grown-up. Meanwhile, her father might give way or he might not.
'I on'y just wanted to show 'im to Doctor, Dad. I won't let 'im do no 'arm, honest. On'y it's nice talking to Doctor.'
Although he never said so, her father was proud of the way Lucy got on with Doctor. She was proper bright kid - very likely goin' to grammar school an' all, so they told him. Doctor had said once or twice she was real sensible with these things she picked up what she showed him. Comin' to somethin', though, bloody rabbits. All same, would'n' 'urt, long's she didn' let 'un go on the place.
'Why don' you do somethin' sensible,' he said, ' 'stead o' bidin' there'ollerin' and carryin' on like you was skimmish? You wants go'n get some cloze on, then you c'n go'n put 'im in that old cage what's in shed. One what you 'ad for they budgies.'
Lucy stopped crying and went upstairs, still carrying the rabbit. She shut it in a drawer, got dressed and went out to get the cage. On the way back she stopped for some straw from behind the kennel. Her father came across from the long barn.
'Did y'seeBob?'
'Never,' said Lucy. 'Where's 'e gone then?'
'Bust 'is rope an' off. I know'd that old rope were gett'n on like, but I didn't reckon 'e could bust 'im. Anyways, I go' go in to Newbury s'mornin'. 'F'e turns up agen you'd best tie 'im up proper.'
'I'll look out fer 'im, Dad,' said Lucy. 'I'll ge' bi' o' breakfast up to Mum now.'
'Ah, that's good girl. I reckon she'll be right's a trivet to-morrer.'
Doctor Adams arrived soon after ten. Lucy, who was making her bed and tidying her room later than she should have been, heard him stop his car under the elms at the top of the lane and went out to meet him, wondering why he had not driven up to the house as usual. He had got out of the car and was standing with his hands behind his back, looking down the lane, but he caught sight of her and called in the rather shy, abrupt way she was used to.
'Er-Lucy.'
She ran up. He took off his pince-nez and put them in his waistcoat pocket.
'Is that your dog?'
The Labrador was coming up the lane, looking decidedly tired and trailing its broken rope. Lucy
laid hold of it.
' 'E's bin off, Doctor. 'Bin ever so worried 'bout 'im.'