"Cats!" said the Pygmy Shrew. Vainly did Bartimæus strive to see her—a sorrel leaf concealed her, head to tail.
"Worse than dogs. Worse than weasels. Worse than cats," said the Harvest Mouse. "TRAPS!"
"We Harvest Mice are never trapped, and stump-tail mice are only trapped by chance—or their own folly. I saw one once. He walked inside because it rained in torrents. Down went the door, and he was drowned, with cheese afloat all round him."
"Cheese is good," said the Meadow Mouse.
"Cheese is glorious," said the Pygmy Shrew.
"There you are. You'd go anywhere for cheese," said the Harvest Mouse. "One bite—a snap behind—and then where are you?"
"I'm out in front," said the Pygmy Shrew.
"You'll try that once too often," said the Harvest Mouse.
"Now I hate cheese—the smell of it spells danger. But there are traps and traps—and the worst traps are traps with nothing in them."
"That's so," said the Meadow Mouse.