At last the Rat succeeded in decoying him to the table, and had just
got seriously to work with the sardine-opener when sounds were heard
from the fore-court without--sounds like the scuffling of small feet
in the gravel and a confused murmur of tiny voices, while broken
sentences reached them--'Now, all in a line--hold the lantern up a
bit, Tommy--clear your throats first--no coughing after I say one,
two, three.--Where's young Bill?--Here, come on, do, we're all
a-waiting----'
'What's up?' inquired the Rat, pausing in his labours.
'I think it must be the field-mice,' replied the Mole, with a touch of
pride in his manner. 'They go round carol-singing regularly at this
time of the year. They're quite an institution in these parts. And
they never pass me over--they come to Mole End last of all; and I used
to give them hot drinks, and supper too sometimes, when I could afford
it. It will be like old times to hear them again.'
'Let's have a look at them!' cried the Rat, jumping up and running to
the door.
It was a pretty sight, and a seasonable one, that met their eyes when
they flung the door open.
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