“Of course I shall!” said Grimalkin.
“Well,” said Mousie, who had suddenly thought of a plan; “if you will only let me go, I’ll bring you a beautiful juicy piece of meat every day!”
This was a tempting offer for Grimalkin, who was a lazy Cat, and liked sitting by the fire, and licking himself all over, better than hunting for mice.
“All right,” said he; “only if you leave out one day, you’re a dead mouse!” Then, with a frightful spit, bristling up all his whiskers and eyebrows, Grimalkin ran away.
So next day, when the Farmer gave Mousie his dinner, Mousie carried it off to the black Cat, and the black Cat spat and swore and ate it up, and away ran Mousie trembling. But by degrees Mousie grew thinner and thinner, because Grimalkin always had his dinner; and soon he was nothing but skin and bone. Then the Farmer noticed how thin his Mouse had become, so one day he asked the Mouse whether he was ill.
“No,” said Mousie, “I’m not ill.”
“What is the matter, then?” asked the Farmer.
“I never get any dinner now,” said Mousie, with tears running down over his nose, “because Grimalkin eats it all!” Then he told the Farmer about the bargain he had made with Grimalkin.
Now the Farmer had a beautiful piece of glass, with a hole in the middle. I think it was an inkstand, but I am not sure. So he took this piece of glass and put Mousie inside it, and turned it upside down upon the ground in front of Mousie’s hole. “Now,” said he, “next time Grimalkin comes for your dinner, tell him you have none for him, and see what will happen.”
So next day up comes Grimalkin for his dinner, spitting and looking very fierce.