In the middle of the bed, under the blanket, was a wet something —­much flattened in the middle, where the pail had caught it (as it were across the tummy).  Its head was covered by the wet blanket, and it was not snoring any longer.

There was nothing stirring, and no sound except the drip, drop, drop, drip, of water trickling from the mattress.

Mr. Tod watched it for half an hour; his eyes glistened.

Then he cut a caper, and became so bold that he even tapped at the window; but the bundle never moved.

Yes—­there was no doubt about it—­it had turned out even better than he had planned; the pail had hit poor old Tommy Brock, and killed him dead!

“I will bury that nasty person in the hole which he has dug.  I will bring my bedding out, and dry it in the sun,” said Mr. Tod.

“I will wash the tablecloth and spread it on the grass in the sun to bleach.  And the blanket must be hung up in the wind; and the bed must be thoroughly disinfected, and aired with a warming-pan; and warmed with a hot water bottle.”

“I will get soft soap, and monkey soap, and all sorts of soap; and soda and scrubbing brushes; and persian powder; and carbolic to remove the smell.  I must have a disinfecting.  Perhaps I may have to burn sulphur.”

He hurried round the house to get a shovel from the kitchen—­ “First I will arrange the hole—­then I will drag out that person in the blanket. . . .”

He opened the door. . . .

Tommy Brock was sitting at Mr. Tod’s kitchen table, pouring out tea from Mr. Tod’s teapot into Mr. Tod’s teacup.  He was quite dry himself and grinning; and he threw the cup of scalding tea all over Mr. Tod.

Then Mr. Tod rushed upon Tommy Brock, and Tommy Brock grappled with Mr. Tod amongst the broken crockery, and there was a terrific battle all over the kitchen.  To the rabbits underneath it sounded as if the floor would give way at each crash of falling furniture.

They crept out of their tunnel, and hung about amongst the rocks and bushes, listening anxiously.

Inside the house the racket was fearful.  The rabbit babies in the oven woke up trembling; perhaps it was fortunate they were shut up inside.

Everything was upset except the kitchen table.

And everything was broken, except the mantelpiece and the kitchen fender.  The crockery was smashed to atoms.

The chairs were broken, and the window, and the clock fell with a crash, and there were handfuls of Mr. Tod’s sandy whiskers.

The vases fell off the mantelpiece, the cannisters fell off the shelf; the kettle fell off the hob.  Tommy Brock put his foot in a jar of raspberry jam.

And the boiling water out of the kettle fell upon the tail of Mr. Tod.

When the kettle fell, Tommy Brock, who was still grinning, happened to be uppermost; and he rolled Mr. Tod over and over like a log, out at the door.