Then said Isegrim, “Now we are quite enough; but I must spy out Whiteling and learn what forces he has. Then I will let you know that we are all ready for war.”
Isegrim betook himself to Whiteling’s house, and standing in the lane looked over the hedge. “Are you ready, Whiteling?” he asked. “To-morrow is the day.”
“I shall be ready,” replied Whiteling in a tone of deepest dejection; “but tell me precisely, where is the battle to be?”
“You know very well,” replied Isegrim; “yonder, under the tree we agreed upon.”
“Very well,” said the Dog, and slunk sorrowfully away to the other side of the farm-yard. There the Tomcat met him and said, “Why, my dear Whiteling, what can be the matter, what makes you so sad?”
And Whiteling answered, “My dear Grimalkin, you don’t know where the shoe pinches. Will you come to my aid?”
“Why, what are you talking about?” asked the surprised Cat.
“Just think of it,” replied the Dog, “to-morrow I have to fight Isegrim; we have declared war to the knife.”
“Oh, oh, my Whiteling, cheer up! I’ll stand by you to the death. Just you go to friend Quacker, the Drake, and engage his help.”
With a lighter heart Whiteling sought friend Quacker and begged his friendly aid.