“Nonsense,” said Greyskin. “You shall live to laugh at all your troubles. Come along with us and sing in the choir at St. Gudule. Your voice is a little too thin for my own taste, but you’ll make a very good soprano in a trio. What do you say?”
“You give me new hopes,” answered the cat. “Of course I’ll join you,” and so the three went on together.
Towards nightfall they arrived at a farmyard, on the gate of which a cock was crowing lustily.
“Hallo!” said Greyskin. “What’s all this about?”
“I am singing my last song on earth,” said the cock. “An hour ago I sang a song, although it is not my usual custom to crow in the afternoon, and as I ended I heard the farmer’s wife say: ‘Hearken to Chanticleer. He’s crowing for fine weather to-morrow. I wonder if he’d crow so loudly if he knew that we had guests coming, and that he was going into the pot to make their soup!’ She has a horrid laugh, that woman. I have always hated her!”
“And do you mean to tell me,” said Greyskin, “that you are going to stay here quite contentedly till they come to wring your neck?”
“What else can I do?” asked Chanticleer.
“Join us, and turn your talents to account. We are all beautiful singers and we are going to Brussels to offer ourselves as choristers at St. Gudule. We were a trio before. With you we shall be a quartet, and that’s one better!”
Chanticleer was only too glad to find a means of escape, so he willingly joined the party, and they once more took the road. A little while afterwards they came to a thick wood, which was the haunt of a notorious band of robbers. There they decided to rest for the night, so Greyskin and the dog lay down beneath the shelter of a large beech-tree, while the cat climbed on to one of the branches, and Chanticleer perched himself at the very top. From this lofty post he could see over the whole wood, and it was not long before he espied a light twinkling among the trees not far away.