the Rat shortly. "We don’t go there very much, we river-bankers."
"Aren’t they—aren’t they very nice people in there?" said the Mole, a trifle nervously.
"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. And then there’s Badger, of course. He lives right in the heart of it; wouldn’t live anywhere else, either, if you paid him to do it. Dear old Badger! Nobody interferes with him. They’d better not," he added significantly.
"Why, who should interfere with him?" asked the Mole.
"Well, of course—there—are others," explained the Rat in a hesitating sort of way.
"Weasels—and stoats—and foxes—and so on. They’re all right in a way—I’m very good friends with them—pass the time of day when we meet, and all that—but they break out sometimes, there’s no denying it, and then—well, you can’t really trust them, and that’s the fact."
The Mole knew well that it is quite against animal-etiquette to dwell on possible trouble