But no screams. Mr. Tod was mystified; he sat quite still, and listened
attentively. Then he peeped in at the window. The water was dripping
from the bed, the pail had rolled into a corner.
In the middle of the bed under the blanket, was a wet flattened
_something_--much dinged in, 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.
[Illustration]
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."
[Illustration]
"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.
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