They heard nothing, not even the opening of the barrel and the hubbub of the market.
Neither perceived they the trembling of the scales in which they oscillated whilst the cook haggled over them with the fish-wife—or remarked the click-clack of the pointer that spoke their doom.
They slept still more soundly in the cook's basket, starting into life again only in the bowl, beneath the rush of cold water. And now, after doing unwilling penance for an hour against the glass, they have only just hit upon witchcraft.
"What are we to do?" says one to the other.
The carp know themselves to be in prison.
They, too, have had experience of a long night, and awoke in a bowl.
"Someone," say they, "had palmed off counterfeit bank-notes on us!"
It will be proved, they are sure, if only one could get hold of someone who will take the matter up properly.
They give a little leap into the air, catch sight of the pike, and fall back more dead than alive.
"They are going to eat us!" they say, trembling. Not until they realize that the pike are likewise in prison do they feel somewhat reassured.