CHAPTER 33Dicky Pratt went home. He was in good time for his dinner, a most unusual circumstance. Not that there was much to eat. There were a couple of big old potatoes which Dicky had brought home about a month before. Mrs. Pratt wouldn’t have taken them from anyone else herself, but she had learned not to ask questions about what Dicky brought home. In her muddled way, what she didn’t know about left her conscience free—and what were two or three old potatoes anyhow? She cooked them in their jackets and served them on an uncleared table with the cold rabbit they had left over from yesterday. Dicky had no nerves about eating rabbit.
“This here myxy,”[2] as he called it, which had reduced the rabbit population to almost nothing was to him a “black shame.” Rabbits had been his main supply
