right.” He took the lantern from the shaft and threw its light on to a small wooden shed, for hay or something of the sort, but decrepit, poor and crazy. “And I’ll make a fire,” he said in his singing voice, “and get you some tea. When you’ve sweated you’ll be well again.” He wrapped Prokop up in the sack and put down the light in front of him. “Wait while I fetch some wood. Stay here.” He was just on the point of going off when something occurred to him. He thrust his hand into his pocket and looked at Prokop interrogatively.
“What is it, grandfather?”
“I . . . don’t know if you would like to . . . I’m a star reader.” He brought his hand out of his pocket again. Through his fingers there was peering a little white mouse with red eyes. “I know,” he babbled on quickly, “that you don’t believe in such things, but . . . he’s a pretty little chap—Would you like to?”
“I should.”
“That’s good,” said the old man, delighted. “S-s-s-s-s—ma—la, hop!” He opened his hand and the little mouse nimbly ran along his sleeve up to his shoulder, sniffed delicately at his hairy ear and hid in his collar.
“He’s a beauty,” breathed Prokop.
The old man’s face glowed with pleasure. “Wait and see what he can do,” and he ran to the cart, rooted about in it, and returned with a box full of tickets arranged in series. He gave the box a shake, gazing with his shining eyes into the distance. “Show him, mouse, show him his love.” He whistled between his teeth like a bat. The mouse sprang up,
