written, was almost too much for her. But there was no use dwelling on dreadful thoughts, so she rubbed the tear off with her pencil and went on writing more busily than ever.
A shadow moved in the far corner by the door. It was Murrum, just returned through the kitchen window from his prowling. He caught sight of Tubby sitting there in the moonlight, and pricked up his ears.
Murrum was in a very bad temper. Things were going from bad to worse. He had not caught a single mouse in the last three nights. He blamed this entirely on the toys, and for a long time he had been planning revenge. Only this very day he had gone his rounds, sniffing everywhere; there was just one hole in the room, he knew, where a mouse might possibly be, and as luck would have it that hole was exactly in the corner by the fireplace, behind the coal scuttle, where Tubby sat writing her letters.
Murrum’s tail twitched angrily. It was too bad! There she sat, right in his way. “Stop rustling that paper!” he growled. “What are you doing there?”
“I won’t tell you,” said Tubby, and her pencil went straight on—scratch—scratch—on the paper.
“You’re making a noise!” cried Murrum. “How dare you? Get out of my corner at once!”
Tubby made no answer, though the Easter Chicken plucked anxiously at her skirt. Murrum’s tail was twitching to and fro, and his eyes shone like green lamps.
