Mr. and Mrs. Bunny—Detectives Extraordinaire! by Polly Horvath Page B

Bunny.
    â€œGoogle,” said Mrs. Bunny.
    â€œI didn’t know you could Google marmots,” said Madeline.
    â€œYou can Google anything, dear,” said Mrs. Bunny patronizingly. “I just learned how to use the computer this year. Mr. Bunny taught me.”
    â€œAnd I’m never teaching you anything again,” said Mr. Bunny.
    â€œYou got that straight,” said Mrs. Bunny.
    â€œWell, what are we waiting for?” said Madeline, so Mr. Bunny hopped inside to his computer and Googled The Marmot.
    He came out waving a piece of paper with the address, and the three of them set off over hill and dale to a “particularly ugly part of the countryside,” as Mrs. Bunny loftily put it. They pulled up in front of a pile of dirt.
    â€œLook at that hole he lives in,” said Mrs. Bunny scathingly.
    â€œShhh,” said Madeline. “That’s not nice.”
    â€œNot
nice
?” said Mr. Bunny. “It’s just
accurate
. Marmots live in holes.”
    â€œMr. Bunny,” Madeline began. They were there begging favors. He needed to be tactful.
    â€œYes? For so I am called,” said Mr. Bunny.
    â€œBut there are holes and
holes
,” interrupted Mrs. Bunny, sniffing.
    â€œThey don’t even plaster. They don’t put floors down. They don’t paint. Dirt floors, dirt walls, that’s good enough for them,” said Mr. Bunny.
    They got out, getting rather muddy in the process, for it had started to rain and marmots also don’t keep proper lawnsor gardens, drives or walkways, so the Bunnys were up to their furry knees in mud.
    â€œThere’s not even any place to knock,” said Mrs. Bunny.
    â€œIf it were me, I’d install a nice ground-level doorbell,” said Mr. Bunny speculatively.
    â€œHello, Mr. Marmot!” Madeline called down the hole.
    â€œ
Mr
. indeed,” said Mr. Bunny. “Hey, you big marmot head, answer your door, why don’t you!”
    â€œBe nice,” said Madeline. “Or he won’t want to come out.”
    Just then a furry face with teeth that protruded a bit too much to be attractive poked out.
    â€œWell? What do
you
want?” asked The Marmot. “It’s not often we get bunnies in these parts. Not visiting
us
. Not often. And humans? Humans who speak Marmot? Never.”
    â€œYou see,” whispered Mrs. Bunny to Madeline. “Can’t even make intelligent conversation.”
    â€œMr. Marmot, I’m pleased to meet you,” said Madeline. Then she stopped. “Are we speaking Marmot or Bunny now?”
    â€œA little bit of each, dear,” said Mrs. Bunny.
    â€œI understand
both
?” said Madeline. An exciting thought was occurring to her. Was she one of the people scientists werelooking for who could speak all animal languages? She knew she was smart. She had, after all, read
Pride and Prejudice
. Twice.
    But she didn’t know she was
that
smart. No, smart wasn’t really the word for it. It was a gift. Was she so gifted?
    â€œShe doesn’t even know what languages she is speaking? What a dummy,” said The Marmot.
    â€œShut up,” said Mr. Bunny.
    â€œThis is Madeline,” interjected Mrs. Bunny hastily. “And she is certainly no dummy. You remember me and Mr. Bunny. We’ve come on an errand of grave importance.”
    â€œYou need help digging a grave, is that it?” asked The Marmot. “Someone told you marmots were good diggers, did they? Well, we are, we are, we are. Look at this lovely hole I’ve dug. Come to the right place, you have. Cost you a million dollars, but I’ll take the job!”
    â€œA million dollars! You idiot marmot!” roared Mr. Bunny, but Madeline put a restraining hand on his shoulder.
    â€œNo, it’s your superior intelligence we’re after,” she said soothingly.
    â€œOh, that, oh, that, oh, that,” said The Marmot. He closed his eyes a minute to let the meaning of this