“Are they all there, friend Whitey?” asked the Piper.
“They are all there,” replied Whitey.
“How many?” the Piper questioned.
“Nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine,” was the answer.
“Then go and join them, old sire,” said the Piper. “Good-by.”
So the old rat jumped into the water, swam to the whirlpool, and down he went out of sight.
The Piper walked back into the town and went to bed at an inn; and for the first time in three months the people slept quietly through the night. There was no noise to disturb them, and they slept the more serenely because now there was a prospect they would have a chance to enjoy food that the rats had not tasted before them. In the morning, so rejoiced were they over their delivery from the plague of vermin that they threw up their caps and hurrahed, and they rang the church bells till they rocked the steeples. But at nine o’clock, when the Piper went to the town hall to get his pay, the mayor and the council and the townsfolk generally began to hum and ha, and to shake their heads, for where was all that money to come from? Besides, it had been a very easy job that the Piper had done and had only taken him a little while.
“Sirs,” said the Piper, “all your rats took a jump into the harbor last night, and I guarantee that not one of them will come back. There were one million, and you can reckon how much is due me at a penny a head.”
“My good man,” said the mayor, “you must know that we are poor folk; surely you will not ask us to pay such a sum.”
“I only want you to do as you agreed to do,” responded the Piper.