Paul pounced upon the wriggling figure just in time to prevent further funeral trappings. He turned it face downwards upon the blotting-paper.
‘Oh, oh!’ cried the children in the same breath; ‘it’s drank him up!’
‘Drunk him up,’ corrected Paul, relieved by the success of his manœuvre. ‘His feet touched the blotting-paper, you see.’
A pause followed.
‘You promised to tell us his song, please,’ observed Nixie from her perch on the window-sill.
‘This is it, then,’ he answered, looking round at the smudged and solemn faces, instantly grown still. ‘To judge by appearances you know this Sprite better than I do!
I dance on your paper,
I hide in your pen,
I make in your ink-stand
My black little den;