"Rabbit," said Lucy defensively.

"In yer nightdress 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 no 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'see Bob?"

"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 tomorrer."

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."

The Labrador began to sniff at Doctor Adams' shoes.

"Something's been fighting with him, I think," said Doctor Adams. "His nose is scratched quite badly, and that looks like some kind of a bite on his leg."

"What d'you reckon t'was, then, Doctor?"

"Well, it might have been a big rat, I suppose, or perhaps a stoat. Something he went for that put up a fight."

"I got a rabbit s'mornin', Doctor. Woild one. 'E's aloive. I took 'un off o' the cat. On'y I reckon e's 'urt. Joo like see 'im?"

"Well, I'd better go and see Mrs. Cane first, I think." (Not "your mother," thought Lucy.) "And then if I've got time I'll have a look at the chap."

Twenty minutes later Lucy was holding the rabbit as quiet as she could while Doctor Adams pressed it gently here and there with the balls of two fingers.

"Well, there doesn't seem to be much the matter with him, as far as I can see," he said at last. "Nothing's broken. There's something funny about his hind leg, but that's been done some time and it's more or less healed-or as much as it ever will. The cat's scratched him across here, you see, but that's nothing much. I should think he'll be all right for a bit."

"No good to keep 'im, though, Doctor, would it? In 'utch, I mean."

"Oh, no, he wouldn't live shut up in a box. If he couldn't get out he'd soon die. No, I should let the poor chap go-unless you want to eat him."

Lucy laughed. "Dad'd be ever s'woild, though, if I was to let 'im go anywheres round 'ere. 'E always says one rabbit means 'undred an' one."

"Well, I'll tell you what," said Doctor Adams, taking his thin fob watch on the fingers of one hand and looking down at it as he held it at arm's length-for he was longsighted-"I've got to go a few miles up the road to see an old lady at Cole Henley. If you like to come along in the car, you can let him go on the down and I'll bring you back before dinner."

Lucy skipped. "I'll just go'n ask Mum."

On the ridge between Hare Warren Down and Watership Down, Doctor Adams stopped the car.

"I should think this would be as good as anywhere," he said. "There's not a lot of harm he can do here, if you come to think about it."

They walked a short distance eastward from the road and Lucy set the rabbit down. It sat stupefied for nearly half a minute and then suddenly dashed away over the grass.

"Yes, he has got something the matter with that leg, you see," said Doctor Adams. "But he could perfectly well live for years, as far as that goes. Born and bred in a briar patch, Brer Fox."

Although Woundwort had shown himself at the last to be a creature virtually mad, nevertheless what he did proved not altogether futile. There can be little doubt that if he had not done it, more rabbits would have been killed that morning on Watership Down. So swiftly and silently had the dog come up the hill behind Dandelion and Blackberry that one of Campion's sentries, half asleep under a tussock after the long night, was pulled down and killed in the instant that he turned to bolt. Later-after it had left Woundwort-the dog beat up and down the bank and the open grass for some time, barking and dashing at every bush and clump of weeds. But by now the Efrafans had had time to scatter and hide, as best they could. Besides, the dog, unexpectedly scratched and bitten, showed a certain reluctance to come to grips. At last, however, it succeeded in putting up and killing the rabbit who had been wounded by glass the day before, and with this it made off by the way it had come, disappearing over the edge of the escarpment.

There could be no question now of the Efrafans renewing their attack on the warren. None had any idea beyond saving his own life. Their leader was gone. The dog had been set on them by the rabbits they had come to kill-of this they were sure. It was all one with the mysterious fox and the white bird. Indeed, Ragwort, the most unimaginative rabbit alive, had actually heard it underground. Campion, crouching in a patch of nettles with Vervain and four or five more, met with nothing but shivering agreement when he said that he was sure that they ought to leave at once this dangerous place, where they had already stayed far too long.