"Besides," demurred the Griffin hesitatingly, "I have two chilblains and such tender paws, I don't think I could really."
"We did not ask you to play," interrupted the Lion shortly.
"No, no," replied the Griffin hastily, "to sing—I understand. Yes, to sing. Oh—fancy asking me to sing. Well, well, perhaps a few bars."
"Now we are in for it," said the Lion, "and I don't suppose you will ever hear anything like it again."
"I do so want to hear the Griffin," said Ridgwell, "and I really cannot think what it will be like."
"Like?" echoed the Lion, "it will be like the effect of the first early gooseberries of the year without sugar or milk; it will be like slate pencils squeaking upon slates; like a trombone that somebody is learning to play for the first time. However, nothing short of an earthquake will stop him now, for, as I tell you, he is simply dying to sing the moment he thinks anybody at all will listen to him, and that he can show off. However," added the Lion, "when it gets beyond all human endurance, I make a sign to Richard I. Now the Griffin is terribly frightened of Richard I."
"Why?" asked both the children.
"Because the Griffin is afraid that Richard will advance and hit him on the paws with the big sword he carries."
"And will he?" asked the children.
"Yes," said the Lion, "if it gets too bad."