"RABBITS ARE A MIXED LOT"

`W-e-ll,' replied the Rat, `let me see. The squirrels are all right. And the rabbits - some of 'em, but rabbits are a mixed lot.'

There is a public house much frequented by rabbits, and with rare dark humour it is called 'The Hutch.' It is here in this cramped and ugly shed that tales are told, and news, gossip and goings-on are disseminated and discussed. Amongst other topics of local interest, the conversation often dwells on the local gentry and their hangers-on, those who call themselves 'River Bankers.'

When the stoats and weasels commandeered Toad Hall, every aspect of this bold enterprise – as some saw it – was discussed at length and in great detail, for it was the biggest thing for many years. Why, for example, was Mr Toad's sentence so severe? As one drinker put it, "I've known shorter sentences handed out for attempted murder!"

"Because," answered a sage, "because young Mr Toad was so reckless in his motoring, that every time he drove out it amounted to just that: attempted murder. Sooner or later he would have killed someone, that's for sure. The magistrates knew that, and acted 'for the public good,' even though he was one of them. Good for them, I say." There was general agreement. Many of those present knew of someone who had had to leap out of Toad's way in fear for their lives.

The talk got back to the seizure of Toad Hall. One newcomer said, "I heard as how 'They' beat black and blue a couple of River Bankers who were holed up there, and threw them out."

Many heads nodded and a good few chuckled. "'They' exaggerate, as they usually do," said one. "But true enough, old Badger and a friend of his were there. They got roughed up and shown the door. But nothing worse than a bruise or two and a good soaking from stormy weather."

Another said, "Mr Badger is well regarded around here, and deserving of more respect. As for the other though, a Mr Mole, he got no worse than he deserved. He'd have suffered a deal more if I'd been there." There were demands that he explain, but he excused himself on the grounds of thirst. One pint and a little encouragement later, he was ready to expand. "This Mr Mole turned up in the great meadow one spring day last year, and there was my old dad just doing his job."

"His job? He's never done a day's work in his life," joshed a mate.

"He was taking fees for using the Private Road when along comes this Mole, as bold as you please. 'Hold up,' says Dad, polite like, but firm. 'Six pence for use of the Private Road if you please.'"

"SIX PENCE!" spluttered one into his glass. "How was he travelling? By coach-and-four?"

"No need to be sarky. The fee is a ha'penny for common folk and a tanner for the gentry. Dad was simply flattering Mole, 'cause a gentleman he aint." He raised a paw to silence any challenge to this dubious explanation. "What does Mole do? Does he hand over his six pence and show his quality? No, though sixpence is nothing to the likes of him. Does he turn round and find another way? No. Does he haggle over the price? Not he. This River Banker lays paws on that poor frail old rabbit and forcibly knocks him to the ground. Then, as he jauntily struts away he adds insult to injury by words I will not repeat in this company, though there are many who heard them. Well, what do you say?"

"I say," replied one of his audience, "that there is no 'Private Road,' and we all know it. That Mr Mole knew false pretences when he heard it. This 'Private Road' of your thieving father is a plain falsehood, a trick to tap the gullible. Well done Mr Mole is what I say."

This was fighting talk, but friends of the two rabbits held them apart: brawling in The Hutch was strictly forbidden, with a dreaded penalty of permanent exclusion.

"So Dad was stretching the truth a bit. That don't justify violent assault. Put him in his sickbed it did!"

"Perhaps it did, but he's hardly missed a day in here before or since. That's him in the corner now, fast asleep over a tot of whisky – as usual."

There was coarse laughter at this, for Rabbit senior was a known drunkard. The Hutch did not have a Spirits Licence, so the barman tried to steer the conversation onto safer ground. "I heard as how young Mr Mole got himself into a spot of trouble in the Wood last winter?"

Nobody spoke for a moment, and then a new, rough voice came from a dark corner. "He went where he wasn't welcome: he wandered into the Wood on his own, goodness knows why. 'They' put the fright into him good and proper. Chivvied him round and round they did! And without so much as showing themselves: no threats, no words, no nothing! Gave him a proper scare though! I did my bit too: rushed past him pretending to be scared out of my wits. Never laughed so much in years!"

Someone else challenged: "Did you laugh in the morning when Otter came round asking questions?"

"Otter is a bully. I didn't laugh either when Water Rat came in after his friend. He carried a cudgel – far enough – but also a couple of loaded pistols. Firearms into the Wild Wood! I reckon that's what started it."

"Started what!"

"The weasels taking up weapons of course! If the gentry were going to threaten them with pistols then their Chief reckoned they'd go one better and carry rifles."

"Well they are in Toad Hall now and out of our hair. All the better for us." For which sentiment there was unanimity.

"Raise your glasses to Mr Toad for being so accommodating!" shouted a wit.

"Spare a thought for Fox," said another as soon as he could make himself heard. "The Other Place hardly gets a customer now." There was more laughter. Fox was the unpopular landlord of a nearby tavern which was favoured by the stoats, weasels and ferrets. The rabbits avoided it, and between themselves always referred to it as 'The Other Place,' because its correct name, The Dog and Gun, they regarded as too near the knuckle.

Licensing laws or not, the drinking would have carried on well into the night had the barman not announced that he was not accepting anything more on the slate. There were theatrically loud groans and grumbles, but acceptance of the inevitable. Ready cash was always in short supply, but doubly so now that there was nothing to be earned by casual work on the Toad Hall estate.