"TAFFY was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief,
Taffy came to my house and stole a piece of beef;
I went to Taffy's house, Taffy wasn't home,
Taffy came to my house and stole a marrow-bone;
I went to Taffy's house, Taffy was in bed,
I took the marrow-bone and beat about his head."
"Well, I guess you did what was right," said Puss, Junior, as he and Tom
Thumb neared a butcher shop in a small village.
The butcher, who had just spoken in rhyme, shifted from one foot to the
other in an uneasy sort of way. "But that isn't all," he went on to say,
in rather an anxious tone of voice.
"Tell us the worst, then," laughed Puss, Junior, who didn't appear very
sympathetic, although the name Taffy appealed to him and made him wonder
what sort of a person Taffy was.
"The truth of the matter is," the butcher went on to say, "I hit him a
bit too hard with the marrow-bone. His head is in bad shape, and the
doctor says it will be some weeks yet before Taffy gets out of bed."
"Gracious me!" exclaimed Tom Thumb. "Why weren't you more careful?"
"That's just it," replied the butcher. "Why wasn't I more careful?" And
then he gave a sigh and went into his shop to wait on a customer.
"Let's make a call on Taffy," said Puss, Junior. "Somehow, I can't help
liking him. I don't know whether it's on account of his name, or not.
But Taffy sounds awfully nice to me."
"It tastes awfully good to me," laughed Tom Thumb. "You must have him
mixed up with candy. That's the reason you like him, I guess."
"Come on and we'll soon find out," cried Puss, Junior. "I'm curious to
see what 'Welsh Taffy' is like." So they both walked up the street,
inquiring on the way where Taffy lived. If the house Taffy owned was any
indication that Taffy was a nice sort of person, it certainly spoke well
for him, for it was the prettiest and most homelike little place Puss
had ever seen.
"I like him already," said Puss, as he knocked on the door.