Now while the mice were merry-making in the caravan, all sorts of
things were happening in the stable. Paddy Pig continued to be feverish
and restless; he kicked off the blanket as fast as the cats replaced
it. “His strength is well maintained,” said Cheesebox after a renewed
struggle, “we must keep him on a low diet.” “What! what! what? I’m
hungry,” squealed the patient; “fetch me a bucketful of pig-wash, I
say! I’m hungry!” “Possibly he might be granted a teeny weeny bit of
fish; the fisher-cart comes round from Flookborough on Wednesdays,”
purred Mary Ellen. “I won’t eat it! flukes are full of pricky bones.
Fetch me pig-wash and potatoes!” “I could pick it for you if you
fancied a little fish—” “I don’t want fish, I tell you. I want
potatoes!” grumbled Paddy Pig. He closed his eyes and pretended to
snore. “He sleeps,” purred Mary Ellen. “Which of us shall sit up first?
We might as well take turns,” said Cheesebox, who was growing a trifle
tired of Mary Ellen’s purring. “I will watch first, dear Cheesebox,
while you take forty winky peepies.”
Mary Ellen composed herself beside Paddy Pig with her paws tucked under
her. Paddy Pig sulked. Maggret, the mare, dozed in the stall nearest to
the window. There was some reflected moonlight through the small dusty
panes, but the stable was very dark.
Cheesebox jumped nimbly onto the manger, and thence into the hay-rack,
wherein was some foisty hay, long undisturbed, to judge by three
doubtful eggs in a forgotten hen nest. Cheesebox curled herself up
in the hay. Over head cobwebs hung from the broken plaster of the
ceiling; there were cracks between the laths, and holes in the floor of
the loft above.
The stable had been well appointed in old days. The tailposts of the
stalls were handsomely carved, and on each were nailed the antlers
of deer. The points served as pegs for hanging up the harness. But
all had become neglected, broken, and dark; the corn-bin was patched
with tin, and the third backmost stall was full of lumber. A slight
noise amongst the lumber drew the attention of Cheesebox; a climbing,
scratching noise, followed by the pattering of rat’s feet over the
loft above. Mary Ellen, in the stall below, stopped purring. Cheesebox
listened intently. There were many pattering footsteps. More and more
rats were assembling. “There must be a committee meeting; a congress
of rats,” thought Cheesebox, very wide awake. The noise and squeaking
increased, until there was a sound of rapping on a box for silence. “I
move that the soapbox-chair be taken by Alder-rat Squeaker. Seconded
and carried unanimously.” “First business?” said old Chair Squeaker,
in a rich suetty voice. “First business, please?” But there seemed to
be neither first nor last; all the rats squeaked at once, and the
Chair-rat thumped in vain upon the soapbox. “One at a time, please!
You squeak first! No, not you. Now be quiet, you other rats! I call
upon Brother Chigbacon to address the assembly. Now, Brother Chigbacon,
squeak up!” “Mr. Chair-rat and Brother Rat-men, I rise from a sense
of cheese—I should say duty, so to squeak. I represent the stable
rats, so to squeak, what is left of us, so to squeak, being only me
and Brother Scatter-meal. Mr. Chair-rat, we being decimated. A horrid
squinting, hideous old cat named Cheesebox—” (Mary Ellen looked up at
the hay-rack and grinned from ear to ear; Cheesebox’s tail twitched)
“—a mangy, skinny-tailed, scraggy, dirty old grimalkin, is decimating
us. What is to be done, Mr. Chair-rat and Brother Rat-men? We refer
ourselves to the guidance of your united wisdom and cunning!”
[Illustration]
The loud, noisy squeaking recommenced; all the rats squeaked different
advice, and old Chair Squeaker thumped upon the soapbox. At length
amongst the jumble of squeaks, a resolution was put before the meeting
by Ratson Nailer, a pert young rat from the village shop. He proposed
that a bell be stolen and hung by a ribbon round the neck of that
wicked green-eyed monster, the ugliest, greediest, slyest cat in the
whole village; “But with a bell round her neck we would always hear her
coming, in spite of her velvet slippers.”
Every rat voted for this proposal except old Chair Squeaker. He was a
rat of many winters, renowned for extracting cheese from every known
make of rat-trap without setting off the spring. “Why don’t you vote?
What’s your objection, old Chair Squeaker?” inquired Ratson Nailer,
pertly. “No objection,” replied old Chair Squeaker, “none whatever! But
tell me—who is going to bell the cat?” No one answered.
Cheesebox reached up, standing on her hind legs in the hay-rack;
she-applied her green eyes to a crack between the boards of the loft
floor. Instantly there was a rush, a scurry, and the assembly of rats
dispersed.
Cheesebox jumped down into the stall; her tail was thick, her fur stood
on end. Mary Ellen very unwisely was still shaking with laughter.
Cheesebox walked up to Mary Ellen. She boxed Mary Ellen’s ears with her
claws out. Mary Ellen, with a howl, jumped into the hay-rack; Cheesebox
followed her. They sat in the hay, making horrible cat noises and
cuffing each other, to the intense annoyance of the mare in the stall
below.
As for Paddy Pig—who had really been enjoying a good sleep at
last—Paddy Pig screamed with rage and yelled for Sandy.
While the uproar was at its height, the stable door opened, and Sandy
came in carrying a lantern, and followed by the veterinary retriever
and Pony Billy. The retriever was a large, important dog with a
hurrying, professional manner, copied from his master. He came rapidly
into the stall, wearing a long blue overcoat, and examined the patient
through a pair of large horn spectacles. The cats glared down at him
from the hay-rack.
“Put your tongue out and say R.” “What, what, what? It’s bad manners?”
objected Paddy Pig. “Put your tongue out, or I’ll bite you!” “What,
what, what?”
“The patient does not appear to be amenable to treatment; but I can
perceive no rash; nothing which would justify me in diagnosing measles”
(dognosing, he pronounced it). “I am inclined to dog-nose iracundia,
arising from tormenta ventris, complicated by feline incompatibility.
But, in order to make certain, I will proceed to feel the patient’s
pulse. Where is the likeliest spot to find the pulse of a pig, I
wonder?” “Try feeling his tail,” suggested Pony William. “I have no
watch,” said the retriever, “but the thermometer will do just as well.
Hold it to the lantern, Sandy, while I count.” “It does not seem to go
up,” said Sandy, much mystified. “That settles it,” said the retriever,
“I felt sure I was not justified in dog-nosing measles, We will now
proceed to administer an emetic—I mean to say an aperient. Has anybody
got a medicine glass?” “There is a drenching horn in that little
wall cupboard behind the door,” said Maggret, who was watching the
proceedings with
[Illustration: Poor Paddy Pig!]
much interest over the side of her stall. “Capital!” said the
retriever, “hold the bottle please, Sandy, while I dust the horn. It’s
chock-full of cobwebs.” Sandy shook the bottle; “I partly seem to know
the smell,” said he. He held it beside the lantern and spelled out the
label—“Appodyldock. What may that be?”
The retriever displayed some anxiety to get the bottle away from him.
“Be careful; the remedy is extremely powerful.”
“Excuse me,” purred a cat’s voice from the hay-rack overhead, “excuse
me—appodyldock is not for insides. My poor dear Granny-ma, Puss Cat
Mew, had appodyldock rubbed on her back where she got burnt by a hot
cinder while she was sitting in the fender. Appodyldock is poison.”
“In spite of our differing I agree with you,” said another cat’s voice
in the hay-rack, “appodyldock is for outward application only.” “Stuff
and nonsense!” said the veterinary retriever, drawing the cork out of
the bottle with his teeth. “Stuff and nonsense! Here goes—” “What!
what! what! if you poison me again, I’ll scream!” remonstrated the
patient. “I seem to remember the smell,” said Sandy. “Quite likely,”
said the retriever; “since there is going to be all this fuss I may as
well tell you it’s castor oil that I have in the bottle.” “What, what?
Castor—ugh! ugh! ugh!” choked Paddy Pig, as they poked the drenching
horn into the corner of his mouth and dosed him.
“A good, safe, old-fashioned remedy, Paddy Pig,” said Pony William.
“Now go to sleep, and you will wake up quite well in the morning. As
a matter of fact, I don’t think there is much wrong with you now.” “I
think one dose will cure me. But, Pony Billy, come here, I want to
whisper. For goodness sake—send away those cats!” Pony Billy took
the hint, and acted with tact; “Mary Ellen, we are extremely obliged
to you for your invaluable attention to the invalid. I shall be
pleased to trot you home to Stott Farm, provided you can go at once,
before the moon sets. Cheesebox, we are equally indebted to you for
your self-sacrificing devotion. I may tell you there are four rats
quarreling in the granary, and one of them sounds like Ratson Nailer.”
Cheesebox jumped out of the stable window without another word.
Mary Ellen—after making sure that the veterinary retriever had
left—Mary Ellen climbed down into the stall and tucked up the patient
for the last time. “Was it a poor leetle sick piggy then—” “What,
what, what! Here, I say! Sandy, Sandy!” “Lie still then. I’m only
seeking my fur-lined boots, they are somewhere in poor piggy’s beddee
beddee.” “Come, Mary Ellen; the moon is setting. Good-night, Paddy Pig,
and pleasant dreams.”
“Now we shall have some peace! Those two are worse than the rats,” said
Maggret, lying down heavily in her stall. Paddy Pig was already snoring.
The sun rose next day upon a glorious May morning. Paddy Pig, a little
thinner than usual, sat by the camp fire, displaying a hearty appetite
for breakfast.
“No more toadstool tartlets for me! Give me another plateful of
porridge, Jenny Ferret!”
[Illustration]