THE Coat was in a downright rage.
"To be beaten, and caned, and cuffed, and shaken, two or three times
a-day," cried he, whisking his tails about like an angry lion, "I say
it's a shame."
"If you were not well thrashed," said the Cane, "you'd soon get thick
with dust, and _then_ I'd like to know how you'd look."
"So _I_ say," remarked the Hat.
"It's all very well for you to talk, Mr. Cane," said the Coat, still
more in a rage. "Nobody ever hits you, and if they did, you could hit
back. And as for you, Mr. Hat, nobody ever thinks of punching you,
except in fun. You have a nice soft brush all to yourself."
"Well, are you not brushed as well?" asked the Hat.
"I don't mind being brushed," said the Coat, "but the next time Mr.
Valet comes along, and hits me, I'll--I'll--" then he growled something
to himself, whisked his tails, and added, "_See_ if I don't."
In came the Valet, and bustled about. The Coat eyed him, and when he
came close, caught him up with _such_ a clutch.
"Hallo, hallo, hallo!" cried the Valet. "What are you doing?"
But the Coat hung the Valet on a nail, and snatched up the Cane.
"Now, look here, Mister Valet," said he. "I'm not going to be dusted and
beaten and thumped. I'm just going to show you what it feels like,
Mister Valet."
"What are you talking about, you stupid old Coat?" said the Valet.
"I'll let you see," said the Coat, flourishing the Cane.
The Cane could not help himself, for he was thin.
Thump, thump, thump, went the Coat, blowing out such clouds and clouds
of dust from the Valet's clothes, never remembering he was covering
himself with dust, and making himself look shockingly shabby. The Valet
called out as loud as he could for help, but nobody heard him, and the
Coat kept on thumping till his sleeves fairly ached. Then he dropped the
Cane, fell on the dirty floor, and whisked his tails with great
satisfaction.
The Cane jumped up, and lifted down the Valet, who went off to his own
room.
A few days after, the master came in, and looked at the Coat, which he
had meant to wear at a jolly garden party.
"Oh," said he, "how dreadfully shabby that Coat looks."
"Yes, sir," said the Valet, "he won't allow himself to be brushed or
dusted."
"Oh, won't he?" said the Master, "that's all very fine, but it won't do
for me." So he seized the Cane, and gave the Coat one good thump. But
such a cloud of dust came out of the Coat that the Master threw down the
Cane, and ran to the door.
"Oh," cried he, "I can't wear that frightful old thing any more. It is
disgracefully shabby and dusty. Sell it to the first 'ole clo'' man that
comes along." But he took the Hat, and went to the nice party.
And what do you think became of this foolish Coat? Why, he was hung on a
stick in a field to make a scare-crow. And serve him right, a stupid
thing.