“It is an impossibility, and if I did they would think me a lunatic or a snivelling, sentimental humbug. I believe that lots of my old friends would scarcely speak to me again. Why, putting aside the pleasures of sport, if the views you preach were to be accepted, what would become of keepers and beaters and huntsmen and dog-breeders, and of thousands of others who directly or indirectly get their living out of hunting and shooting? Where would game rents be also?” “I don’t know, I am sure,” replied the Hare wearily. “I suppose that they would earn their living in some other way, as they must in countries where there is no sport, and that you would have to make up for shooting rents by growing more upon the land. You know that after all we hares and the other game eat a great deal which might be saved if there were not so many of us. But I am not wise, and I have never looked at the question from that point of view. It may seem selfish, but I have to consider myself and the creatures whose cause I plead, for something inside me is telling me now—yes, now—that all of them are speaking through my mouth. It says that is why I am allowed to be here and to talk with you both; for their sakes rather than for my own.” “If you have more to say you had better say it quickly,” I interrupted, addressing the Red-faced Man. “I see that the Lights are beginning to change, which means that soon the Road will be closed and the Gates opened.” “I can’t remember anything,” he answered. “Yes, there is one matter,” he added nervously. “I see, Mr. Hare, that you are thinking of my boy Tom, not very kindly I am afraid. As you have been so good as to forgive me I hope that you won’t be hard on Tom. He is not at all a bad sort of a lad if a little thoughtless, like many other young people.” “I don’t like Tom,” said the Hare, with decision. “Tom shot me when you told him not to shoot. Tom shut me up in a filthy place with a yellow rabbit which he forgot to feed, so that it wanted to eat me. Tom tried to cut me off from the wood so that the running dogs might catch me, although you shouted to him that it was not sportsmanlike. Tom dragged me out of the sea and blew down my nostrils to keep me alive. Tom threw me to the hounds, although Giles remonstrated with him and even the huntsman begged him to let me go. I tell you that I don’t like Tom.” “Still, Mr. Hare,” pleaded the Red-faced Man, “I hope that if it should be in your power when we get through those Gates, that you will be merciful to Tom. I can’t think of much to say for him in this hurry, but there, he is my only son and the truth is that I love him. You know he may live—to be different—if you don’t bring some misfortune on him.”