in a box and were extremely angry about it. One voice, louder than the rest, that sounded like a very sad five-finger exercise.
Murrum listened, his head turned to one side and one paw still lifted.
“A fine rage they’re in, aren’t they!” said Murrum. “That’ll teach them to spoil my mousing!”
“Dearie me,” said the Toad, “what have you been to now? Who is doing all that squealing?”
“Why, the toys, to be sure!” said Murrum. “A wretched noisy crowd they are, night after night prancing and singing all over the house! The place isn’t fit to live in. There’s three nights now I haven’t caught a single mouse, with their carryings on. No sooner do I get to work and settle down, all in position, nicely balanced, than—bing!—in they start with their noise, and I have to begin all over again. It’s enough to make one a nervous wreck. But I’ve settled them to-night. I turned the button on the toy-cupboard door and now they can’t get out.”
The Toad pushed back his spectacles and scratched his head. “They’ll be terribly angry!” he said at last.
“Let them be angry!” said Murrum. “Who cares for that? What sensible people see in those things I can’t imagine! The best of them isn’t worth three hairs off a kitten’s tail. There’s that Anna, with her stupid face, and the rag doll, and Bulka, that you can’t so
