At last the Rat succeeded in decoying him to the table, and had just got seriously to work with the sardine-opener when sounds were heard from the forecourt without⁠—sounds like the scuffling of small feet in the gravel and a confused murmur of tiny voices, while broken sentences reached them⁠—“Now, all in a line⁠—hold the lantern up a bit, Tommy⁠—clear your throats first⁠—no coughing after I say one, two, three.⁠—Where’s young Bill?⁠—Here, come on, do, we’re all a-waiting⁠—”

“What’s up?” inquired the Rat, pausing in his labours.

“I think it must be the field-mice,” replied the Mole, with a touch of pride in his manner. “They go round carol-singing regularly at this time of the year. They’re quite an institution in these parts. And they never pass me over⁠—they come to Mole End last of all; and I used to give them hot drinks, and supper too sometimes, when I could afford it. It will be like old times to hear them again.”

“Let’s have a look at them!” cried the Rat, jumping up and running to the door.