Chapter I. The beginning of things.
Chapter II. Peter's coal-mine.
Chapter III. The old gentleman.
Chapter IV. The engine-burglar.
Chapter V. Prisoners and captives.
Chapter VI. Saviours of the train.
Chapter VII. For valour.
Chapter VIII. The amateur firemen.
Chapter IX. The pride of Perks.
Chapter X. The terrible secret.
Chapter XI. The hound in the red jersey.
Chapter XII. What Bobbie brought home.
Chapter XIII. The hound's grandfather.
Chapter XIV. The End.
Chapter I. The beginning of things.
They
were not railway children to begin with. I don't suppose they had
ever thought about railways except as a means of getting to Maskelyne
and Cook's, the Pantomime, Zoological Gardens, and Madame Tussaud's.
They were just ordinary suburban children, and they lived with their
Father and Mother in an ordinary red-brick-fronted villa, with
coloured glass in the front door, a tiled passage that was called a
hall, a bathroom with hot and cold water, electric bells, French
windows, and a good deal of white paint, and 'every modern
convenience', as the house-agents say.There
were three of them. Roberta was the eldest. Of course, Mothers never
have favourites, but if their Mother HAD had a favourite, it might
have been Roberta. Next came Peter, who wished to be an Engineer when
he grew up; and the youngest was Phyllis, who meant extremely well.Mother
did not spend all her time in paying dull calls to dull ladies, and
sitting dully at home waiting for dull ladies to pay calls to her.
She was almost always there, ready to play with the children, and
read to them, and help them to do their home-lessons. Besides this
she used to write stories for them while they were at school, and
read them aloud after tea, and she always made up funny pieces of
poetry for their birthdays and for other great occasions, such as the
christening of the new kittens, or the refurnishing of the doll's
house, or the time when they were getting over the mumps.These
three lucky children always had everything they needed: pretty
clothes, good fires, a lovely nursery with heaps of toys, and a
Mother Goose wall-paper. They had a kind and merry nursemaid, and a
dog who was called James, and who was their very own. They also had a
Father who was just perfect—never cross, never unjust, and always
ready for a game—at least, if at any time he was NOT ready, he
always had an excellent reason for it, and explained the reason to
the children so interestingly and funnily that they felt sure he
couldn't help himself.You
will think that they ought to have been very happy. And so they were,
but they did not know HOW happy till the pretty life in the Red Villa
was over and done with, and they had to live a very different life
indeed.The
dreadful change came quite suddenly.Peter
had a birthday—his tenth. Among his other presents was a model
engine more perfect than you could ever have dreamed of. The other
presents were full of charm, but the Engine was fuller of charm than
any of the others were.Its
charm lasted in its full perfection for exactly three days. Then,
owing either to Peter's inexperience or Phyllis's good intentions,
which had been rather pressing, or to some other cause, the Engine
suddenly went off with a bang. James was so frightened that he went
out and did not come back all day. All the Noah's Ark people who were
in the tender were broken to bits, but nothing else was hurt except
the poor little engine and the feelings of Peter. The others said he
cried over it—but of course boys of ten do not cry, however
terrible the tragedies may be which darken their lot. He said that
his eyes were red because he had a cold. This turned out to be true,
though Peter did not know it was when he said it, the next day he had
to go to bed and stay there. Mother began to be afraid that he might
be sickening for measles, when suddenly he sat up in bed and said:"I
hate gruel—I hate barley water—I hate bread and milk. I want to
get up and have something REAL to eat.""What
would you like?" Mother asked."A
pigeon-pie," said Peter, eagerly, "a large pigeon-pie. A
very large one."So
Mother asked the Cook to make a large pigeon-pie. The pie was made.
And when the pie was made, it was cooked. And when it was cooked,
Peter ate some of it. After that his cold was better. Mother made a
piece of poetry to amuse him while the pie was being made. It began
by saying what an unfortunate but worthy boy Peter was, then it went
on:He
had an engine that he loved
With all his heart and soul,
And if he had a wish on earth
It was to keep it whole.
One day—my friends, prepare your minds;
I'm coming to the worst—
Quite suddenly a screw went mad,
And then the boiler burst!
With gloomy face he picked it up
And took it to his Mother,
Though even he could not suppose
That she could make another;
For those who perished on the line
He did not seem to care,
His engine being more to him
Than all the people there.
And now you see the reason why
Our Peter has been ill:
He soothes his soul with pigeon-pie
His gnawing grief to kill.
He wraps himself in blankets warm
And sleeps in bed till late,
Determined thus to overcome
His miserable fate.
And if his eyes are rather red,
His cold must just excuse it:
Offer him pie; you may be sure
He never will refuse it.Father
had been away in the country for three or four days. All Peter's
hopes for the curing of his afflicted Engine were now fixed on his
Father, for Father was most wonderfully clever with his fingers. He
could mend all sorts of things. He had often acted as veterinary
surgeon to the wooden rocking-horse; once he had saved its life when
all human aid was despaired of, and the poor creature was given up
for lost, and even the carpenter said he didn't see his way to do
anything. And it was Father who mended the doll's cradle when no one
else could; and with a little glue and some bits of wood and a
pen-knife made all the Noah's Ark beasts as strong on their pins as
ever they were, if not stronger.Peter,
with heroic unselfishness, did not say anything about his Engine till
after Father had had his dinner and his after-dinner cigar. The
unselfishness was Mother's idea—but it was Peter who carried it
out. And needed a good deal of patience, too.At
last Mother said to Father, "Now, dear, if you're quite rested,
and quite comfy, we want to tell you about the great railway
accident, and ask your advice.""All
right," said Father, "fire away!"So
then Peter told the sad tale, and fetched what was left of the
Engine."Hum,"
said Father, when he had looked the Engine over very carefully.The
children held their breaths."Is
there NO hope?" said Peter, in a low, unsteady voice."Hope?
Rather! Tons of it," said Father, cheerfully; "but it'll
want something besides hope—a bit of brazing say, or some solder,
and a new valve. I think we'd better keep it for a rainy day. In
other words, I'll give up Saturday afternoon to it, and you shall all
help me.""CAN
girls help to mend engines?" Peter asked doubtfully."Of
course they can. Girls are just as clever as boys, and don't you
forget it! How would you like to be an engine-driver, Phil?""My
face would be always dirty, wouldn't it?" said Phyllis, in
unenthusiastic tones, "and I expect I should break something.""I
should just love it," said Roberta—"do you think I could
when I'm grown up, Daddy? Or even a stoker?""You
mean a fireman," said Daddy, pulling and twisting at the engine.
"Well, if you still wish it, when you're grown up, we'll see
about making you a fire-woman. I remember when I was a boy—"Just
then there was a knock at the front door."Who
on earth!" said Father. "An Englishman's house is his
castle, of course, but I do wish they built semi-detached villas with
moats and drawbridges."Ruth—she
was the parlour-maid and had red hair—came in and said that two
gentlemen wanted to see the master."I've
shown them into the Library, Sir," said she."I
expect it's the subscription to the Vicar's testimonial," said
Mother, "or else it's the choir holiday fund. Get rid of them
quickly, dear. It does break up an evening so, and it's nearly the
children's bedtime."But
Father did not seem to be able to get rid of the gentlemen at all
quickly."I
wish we HAD got a moat and drawbridge," said Roberta; "then,
when we didn't want people, we could just pull up the drawbridge and
no one else could get in. I expect Father will have forgotten about
when he was a boy if they stay much longer."Mother
tried to make the time pass by telling them a new fairy story about a
Princess with green eyes, but it was difficult because they could
hear the voices of Father and the gentlemen in the Library, and
Father's voice sounded louder and different to the voice he generally
used to people who came about testimonials and holiday funds.Then
the Library bell rang, and everyone heaved a breath of relief."They're
going now," said Phyllis; "he's rung to have them shown
out."But
instead of showing anybody out, Ruth showed herself in, and she
looked queer, the children thought."Please'm,"
she said, "the Master wants you to just step into the study. He
looks like the dead, mum; I think he's had bad news. You'd best
prepare yourself for the worst, 'm—p'raps it's a death in the
family or a bank busted or—""That'll
do, Ruth," said Mother gently; "you can go."Then
Mother went into the Library. There was more talking. Then the bell
rang again, and Ruth fetched a cab. The children heard boots go out
and down the steps. The cab drove away, and the front door shut. Then
Mother came in. Her dear face was as white as her lace collar, and
her eyes looked very big and shining. Her mouth looked like just a
line of pale red—her lips were thin and not their proper shape at
all."It's
bedtime," she said. "Ruth will put you to bed.""But
you promised we should sit up late tonight because Father's come
home," said Phyllis."Father's
been called away—on business," said Mother. "Come,
darlings, go at once."They
kissed her and went. Roberta lingered to give Mother an extra hug and
to whisper:"It
wasn't bad news, Mammy, was it? Is anyone dead—or—""Nobody's
dead—no," said Mother, and she almost seemed to push Roberta
away. "I can't tell you anything tonight, my pet. Go, dear, go
NOW."So
Roberta went.Ruth
brushed the girls' hair and helped them to undress. (Mother almost
always did this herself.) When she had turned down the gas and left
them she found Peter, still dressed, waiting on the stairs."I
say, Ruth, what's up?" he asked."Don't
ask me no questions and I won't tell you no lies," the
red-headed Ruth replied. "You'll know soon enough."Late
that night Mother came up and kissed all three children as they lay
asleep. But Roberta was the only one whom the kiss woke, and she lay
mousey-still, and said nothing."If
Mother doesn't want us to know she's been crying," she said to
herself as she heard through the dark the catching of her Mother's
breath, "we WON'T know it. That's all."When
they came down to breakfast the next morning, Mother had already gone
out."To
London," Ruth said, and left them to their breakfast."There's
something awful the matter," said Peter, breaking his egg. "Ruth
told me last night we should know soon enough.""Did
you ASK her?" said Roberta, with scorn."Yes,
I did!" said Peter, angrily. "If you could go to bed
without caring whether Mother was worried or not, I couldn't. So
there.""I
don't think we ought to ask the servants things Mother doesn't tell
us," said Roberta."That's
right, Miss Goody-goody," said Peter, "preach away.""I'M
not goody," said Phyllis, "but I think Bobbie's right this
time.""Of
course. She always is. In her own opinion," said Peter."Oh,
DON'T!" cried Roberta, putting down her egg-spoon; "don't
let's be horrid to each other. I'm sure some dire calamity is
happening. Don't let's make it worse!""Who
began, I should like to know?" said Peter.Roberta
made an effort, and answered:—"I
did, I suppose, but—""Well,
then," said Peter, triumphantly. But before he went to school he
thumped his sister between the shoulders and told her to cheer up.The
children came home to one o'clock dinner, but Mother was not there.
And she was not there at tea-time.It
was nearly seven before she came in, looking so ill and tired that
the children felt they could not ask her any questions. She sank into
an arm-chair. Phyllis took the long pins out of her hat, while
Roberta took off her gloves, and Peter unfastened her walking-shoes
and fetched her soft velvety slippers for her.When
she had had a cup of tea, and Roberta had put eau-de-Cologne on her
poor head that ached, Mother said:—"Now,
my darlings, I want to tell you something. Those men last night did
bring very bad news, and Father will be away for some time. I am very
worried about it, and I want you all to help me, and not to make
things harder for me.""As
if we would!" said Roberta, holding Mother's hand against her
face."You
can help me very much," said Mother, "by being good and
happy and not quarrelling when I'm away"—Roberta and Peter
exchanged guilty glances—"for I shall have to be away a good
deal.""We
won't quarrel. Indeed we won't," said everybody. And meant it,
too."Then,"
Mother went on, "I want you not to ask me any questions about
this trouble; and not to ask anybody else any questions."Peter
cringed and shuffled his boots on the carpet."You'll
promise this, too, won't you?" said Mother."I
did ask Ruth," said Peter, suddenly. "I'm very sorry, but I
did.""And
what did she say?""She
said I should know soon enough.""It
isn't necessary for you to know anything about it," said Mother;
"it's about business, and you never do understand business, do
you?""No,"
said Roberta; "is it something to do with Government?" For
Father was in a Government Office."Yes,"
said Mother. "Now it's bed-time, my darlings. And don't YOU
worry. It'll all come right in the end.""Then
don't YOU worry either, Mother," said Phyllis, "and we'll
all be as good as gold."Mother
sighed and kissed them."We'll
begin being good the first thing tomorrow morning," said Peter,
as they went upstairs."Why
not NOW?" said Roberta."There's
nothing to be good ABOUT now, silly," said Peter."We
might begin to try to FEEL good," said Phyllis, "and not
call names.""Who's
calling names?" said Peter. "Bobbie knows right enough that
when I say 'silly', it's just the same as if I said Bobbie.""WELL,"
said Roberta."No,
I don't mean what you mean. I mean it's just a—what is it Father
calls it?—a germ of endearment! Good night."The
girls folded up their clothes with more than usual neatness—which
was the only way of being good that they could think of."I
say," said Phyllis, smoothing out her pinafore, "you used
to say it was so dull—nothing happening, like in books. Now
something HAS happened.""I
never wanted things to happen to make Mother unhappy," said
Roberta. "Everything's perfectly horrid."Everything
continued to be perfectly horrid for some weeks.Mother
was nearly always out. Meals were dull and dirty. The between-maid
was sent away, and Aunt Emma came on a visit. Aunt Emma was much
older than Mother. She was going abroad to be a governess. She was
very busy getting her clothes ready, and they were very ugly, dingy
clothes, and she had them always littering about, and the
sewing-machine seemed to whir—on and on all day and most of the
night. Aunt Emma believed in keeping children in their proper places.
And they more than returned the compliment. Their idea of Aunt Emma's
proper place was anywhere where they were not. So they saw very
little of her. They preferred the company of the servants, who were
more amusing. Cook, if in a good temper, could sing comic songs, and
the housemaid, if she happened not to be offended with you, could
imitate a hen that has laid an egg, a bottle of champagne being
opened, and could mew like two cats fighting. The servants never told
the children what the bad news was that the gentlemen had brought to
Father. But they kept hinting that they could tell a great deal if
they chose—and this was not comfortable.One
day when Peter had made a booby trap over the bath-room door, and it
had acted beautifully as Ruth passed through, that red-haired
parlour-maid caught him and boxed his ears."You'll
come to a bad end," she said furiously, "you nasty little
limb, you! If you don't mend your ways, you'll go where your precious
Father's gone, so I tell you straight!"Roberta
repeated this to her Mother, and next day Ruth was sent away.Then
came the time when Mother came home and went to bed and stayed there
two days and the Doctor came, and the children crept wretchedly about
the house and wondered if the world was coming to an end.Mother
came down one morning to breakfast, very pale and with lines on her
face that used not to be there. And she smiled, as well as she could,
and said:—"Now,
my pets, everything is settled. We're going to leave this house, and
go and live in the country. Such a ducky dear little white house. I
know you'll love it."A
whirling week of packing followed—not just packing clothes, like
when you go to the seaside, but packing chairs and tables, covering
their tops with sacking and their legs with straw.All
sorts of things were packed that you don't pack when you go to the
seaside. Crockery, blankets, candlesticks, carpets, bedsteads,
saucepans, and even fenders and fire-irons.The
house was like a furniture warehouse. I think the children enjoyed it
very much. Mother was very busy, but not too busy now to talk to
them, and read to them, and even to make a bit of poetry for Phyllis
to cheer her up when she fell down with a screwdriver and ran it into
her hand."Aren't
you going to pack this, Mother?" Roberta asked, pointing to the
beautiful cabinet inlaid with red turtleshell and brass."We
can't take everything," said Mother."But
we seem to be taking all the ugly things," said Roberta."We're
taking the useful ones," said Mother; "we've got to play at
being Poor for a bit, my chickabiddy."When
all the ugly useful things had been packed up and taken away in a van
by men in green-baize aprons, the two girls and Mother and Aunt Emma
slept in the two spare rooms where the furniture was all pretty. All
their beds had gone. A bed was made up for Peter on the drawing-room
sofa."I
say, this is larks," he said, wriggling joyously, as Mother
tucked him up. "I do like moving! I wish we moved once a month."Mother
laughed."I
don't!" she said. "Good night, Peterkin."As
she turned away Roberta saw her face. She never forgot it."Oh,
Mother," she whispered all to herself as she got into bed, "how
brave you are! How I love you! Fancy being brave enough to laugh when
you're feeling like THAT!"Next
day boxes were filled, and boxes and more boxes; and then late in the
afternoon a cab came to take them to the station.Aunt
Emma saw them off. They felt that THEY were seeing HER off, and they
were glad of it."But,
oh, those poor little foreign children that she's going to
governess!" whispered Phyllis. "I wouldn't be them for
anything!"At
first they enjoyed looking out of the window, but when it grew dusk
they grew sleepier and sleepier, and no one knew how long they had
been in the train when they were roused by Mother's shaking them
gently and saying:—"Wake
up, dears. We're there."They
woke up, cold and melancholy, and stood shivering on the draughty
platform while the baggage was taken out of the train. Then the
engine, puffing and blowing, set to work again, and dragged the train
away. The children watched the tail-lights of the guard's van
disappear into the darkness.This
was the first train the children saw on that railway which was in
time to become so very dear to them. They did not guess then how they
would grow to love the railway, and how soon it would become the
centre of their new life, nor what wonders and changes it would bring
to them. They only shivered and sneezed and hoped the walk to the new
house would not be long. Peter's nose was colder than he ever
remembered it to have been before. Roberta's hat was crooked, and the
elastic seemed tighter than usual. Phyllis's shoe-laces had come
undone."Come,"
said Mother, "we've got to walk. There aren't any cabs here."The
walk was dark and muddy. The children stumbled a little on the rough
road, and once Phyllis absently fell into a puddle, and was picked up
damp and unhappy. There were no gas-lamps on the road, and the road
was uphill. The cart went at a foot's pace, and they followed the
gritty crunch of its wheels. As their eyes got used to the darkness,
they could see the mound of boxes swaying dimly in front of them.A
long gate had to be opened for the cart to pass through, and after
that the road seemed to go across fields—and now it went down hill.
Presently a great dark lumpish thing showed over to the right."There's
the house," said Mother. "I wonder why she's shut the
shutters.""Who's
SHE?" asked Roberta."The
woman I engaged to clean the place, and put the furniture straight
and get supper."There
was a low wall, and trees inside."That's
the garden," said Mother."It
looks more like a dripping-pan full of black cabbages," said
Peter.The
cart went on along by the garden wall, and round to the back of the
house, and here it clattered into a cobble-stoned yard and stopped at
the back door.There
was no light in any of the windows.Everyone
hammered at the door, but no one came.The
man who drove the cart said he expected Mrs. Viney had gone home."You
see your train was that late," said he."But
she's got the key," said Mother. "What are we to do?""Oh,
she'll have left that under the doorstep," said the cart man;
"folks do hereabouts." He took the lantern off his cart and
stooped."Ay,
here it is, right enough," he said.He
unlocked the door and went in and set his lantern on the table."Got
e'er a candle?" said he."I
don't know where anything is." Mother spoke rather less
cheerfully than usual.He
struck a match. There was a candle on the table, and he lighted it.
By its thin little glimmer the children saw a large bare kitchen with
a stone floor. There were no curtains, no hearth-rug. The kitchen
table from home stood in the middle of the room. The chairs were in
one corner, and the pots, pans, brooms, and crockery in another.
There was no fire, and the black grate showed cold, dead ashes.As
the cart man turned to go out after he had brought in the boxes,
there was a rustling, scampering sound that seemed to come from
inside the walls of the house."Oh,
what's that?" cried the girls."It's
only the rats," said the cart man. And he went away and shut the
door, and the sudden draught of it blew out the candle."Oh,
dear," said Phyllis, "I wish we hadn't come!" and she
knocked a chair over."ONLY
the rats!" said Peter, in the dark.
Chapter II. Peter's coal-mine.
"What
fun!" said Mother, in the dark, feeling for the matches on the
table. "How frightened the poor mice were—I don't believe they
were rats at all."
She
struck a match and relighted the candle and everyone looked at each
other by its winky, blinky light.
"Well,"
she said, "you've often wanted something to happen and now it
has. This is quite an adventure, isn't it? I told Mrs. Viney to get
us some bread and butter, and meat and things, and to have supper
ready. I suppose she's laid it in the dining-room. So let's go and
see."
The
dining-room opened out of the kitchen. It looked much darker than the
kitchen when they went in with the one candle. Because the kitchen
was whitewashed, but the dining-room was dark wood from floor to
ceiling, and across the ceiling there were heavy black beams. There
was a muddled maze of dusty furniture—the breakfast-room furniture
from the old home where they had lived all their lives. It seemed a
very long time ago, and a very long way off.
There
was the table certainly, and there were chairs, but there was no
supper.
"Let's
look in the other rooms," said Mother; and they looked. And in
each room was the same kind of blundering half-arrangement of
furniture, and fire-irons and crockery, and all sorts of odd things
on the floor, but there was nothing to eat; even in the pantry there
were only a rusty cake-tin and a broken plate with whitening mixed in
it.
"What
a horrid old woman!" said Mother; "she's just walked off
with the money and not got us anything to eat at all."
"Then
shan't we have any supper at all?" asked Phyllis, dismayed,
stepping back on to a soap-dish that cracked responsively.
"Oh,
yes," said Mother, "only it'll mean unpacking one of those
big cases that we put in the cellar. Phil, do mind where you're
walking to, there's a dear. Peter, hold the light."
The
cellar door opened out of the kitchen. There were five wooden steps
leading down. It wasn't a proper cellar at all, the children thought,
because its ceiling went up as high as the kitchen's. A bacon-rack
hung under its ceiling. There was wood in it, and coal. Also the big
cases.
Peter
held the candle, all on one side, while Mother tried to open the
great packing-case. It was very securely nailed down.
"Where's
the hammer?" asked Peter.
"That's
just it," said Mother. "I'm afraid it's inside the box. But
there's a coal-shovel—and there's the kitchen poker."
And
with these she tried to get the case open.
"Let
me do it," said Peter, thinking he could do it better himself.
Everyone thinks this when he sees another person stirring a fire, or
opening a box, or untying a knot in a bit of string.
"You'll
hurt your hands, Mammy," said Roberta; "let me."
"I
wish Father was here," said Phyllis; "he'd get it open in
two shakes. What are you kicking me for, Bobbie?"
"I
wasn't," said Roberta.
Just
then the first of the long nails in the packing-case began to come
out with a scrunch. Then a lath was raised and then another, till all
four stood up with the long nails in them shining fiercely like iron
teeth in the candle-light.
"Hooray!"
said Mother; "here are some candles—the very first thing! You
girls go and light them. You'll find some saucers and things. Just
drop a little candle-grease in the saucer and stick the candle
upright in it."
"How
many shall we light?"
"As
many as ever you like," said Mother, gaily. "The great
thing is to be cheerful. Nobody can be cheerful in the dark except
owls and dormice."
So
the girls lighted candles. The head of the first match flew off and
stuck to Phyllis's finger; but, as Roberta said, it was only a little
burn, and she might have had to be a Roman martyr and be burned whole
if she had happened to live in the days when those things were
fashionable.
Then,
when the dining-room was lighted by fourteen candles, Roberta fetched
coal and wood and lighted a fire.
"It's
very cold for May," she said, feeling what a grown-up thing it
was to say.
The
fire-light and the candle-light made the dining-room look very
different, for now you could see that the dark walls were of wood,
carved here and there into little wreaths and loops.
The
girls hastily 'tidied' the room, which meant putting the chairs
against the wall, and piling all the odds and ends into a corner and
partly hiding them with the big leather arm-chair that Father used to
sit in after dinner.
"Bravo!"
cried Mother, coming in with a tray full of things. "This is
something like! I'll just get a tablecloth and then—"
The
tablecloth was in a box with a proper lock that was opened with a key
and not with a shovel, and when the cloth was spread on the table, a
real feast was laid out on it.
Everyone
was very, very tired, but everyone cheered up at the sight of the
funny and delightful supper. There were biscuits, the Marie and the
plain kind, sardines, preserved ginger, cooking raisins, and candied
peel and marmalade.
"What
a good thing Aunt Emma packed up all the odds and ends out of the
Store cupboard," said Mother. "Now, Phil, DON'T put the
marmalade spoon in among the sardines."
"No,
I won't, Mother," said Phyllis, and put it down among the Marie
biscuits.
"Let's
drink Aunt Emma's health," said Roberta, suddenly; "what
should we have done if she hadn't packed up these things? Here's to
Aunt Emma!"
And
the toast was drunk in ginger wine and water, out of willow-patterned
tea-cups, because the glasses couldn't be found.
They
all felt that they had been a little hard on Aunt Emma. She wasn't a
nice cuddly person like Mother, but after all it was she who had
thought of packing up the odds and ends of things to eat.
It
was Aunt Emma, too, who had aired all the sheets ready; and the men
who had moved the furniture had put the bedsteads together, so the
beds were soon made.
"Good
night, chickies," said Mother. "I'm sure there aren't any
rats. But I'll leave my door open, and then if a mouse comes, you
need only scream, and I'll come and tell it exactly what I think of
it."
