The sight that met Mr. Tod's eyes in Mr. Tod's kitchen made Mr. Tod
furious. There was Mr. Tod's chair, and Mr. Tod's pie dish, and his
knife and fork and mustard and salt cellar and his table-cloth that
he had left folded up in the dresser—all set out for supper (or
breakfast)—without doubt for that odious Tommy Brock.
There was a smell of fresh earth and dirty badger, which fortunately
overpowered all smell of rabbit.
But what absorbed Mr. Tod's attention was a noise—a deep slow regular snoring grunting noise, coming from his own bed.
He peeped through the hinges of the half-open bedroom door. Then
he turned and came out of the house in a hurry. His whiskers
bristled and his coat-collar stood on end with rage.