I have heard that the rats of Newfoundland bury their comrades when they die, laying the bodies neatly one beside another, head and heels placed alternately together. I do not know whether this be true: it is not the custom of rats in England. We therefore left old Furry where he lay, close behind a barrel of salt meat, where he was discovered the next day by one of the men of the warehouse.
Now, if there be one thing which men usually think more worthless lumber than another, it is the body of a dead rat. Our skins are not in England collected and valued as they are in France; the only thought is usually how to get rid of the unpleasant presence of the dead creature. And yet, strange to say, the porter did not throw away the body of poor old Furry: he carried it off to his master. I was very curious indeed to know its fate; and, after many fruitless inquiries, at length I discovered it.
The tooth which had been Furry’s torment in life, was destined to make him famous after death. Learned men—I know not how many—examined the head of the rat, looked, wondered, consulted together; and the end of the matter was, that it was placed as a great curiosity in some building which is called a museum. There, amidst fine vases and ancient weapons, old manuscripts and precious stones, and noble busts of the wise and great, is the head of poor old Furry preserved, with the mouth wide open, to display the extraordinary tooth! Fame is a strange thing, after all. I believe that our friend the rat was not the first, nor will be the last, to pay a heavy price for the bubble!
Early in spring, one sunny morn, I received a visit from my old comrade Whiskerandos. He was full of life and spirits.
“Ratto,” cried he, “I have often heard you say that you and I should visit foreign countries together; we’ve a capital opportunity now. A vessel is to weigh anchor to-morrow. I have been talking to a ship-rat of my acquaintance, who intends to sail in her, as he has done so before. He says that she is a capital old vessel, full of first-rate accommodation for rats; that Captain Blake keeps a very good table; that there is never any scarcity of pickings; and, in short, I am off for St. Petersburg, and mean to embark to-night: just say that you will go with me.”
“I’m your rat!” I exclaimed, highly delighted. “Would there be room for Oddity too?”
“I daresay that there is plenty of room; but—well, well, Oddity’s an excellent old fellow in spite of his ugly skin; and I’ll take care that nobody insults him.”
Off I scampered to Oddity, half out of breath with excitement; and giving him the news which I had just received, I begged him to accompany Whiskerandos and myself on a pleasure excursion to Russia.
The piebald one bluntly declined.
“Now this is nonsense, Oddity,” cried I; “you must not stay moping here any longer, pining after a child, and watching for his return, when he is never likely to come back.”