Here much muttered conversation ensued, and the Mole only heard bits of it, such as⁠—“Fresh, mind!⁠—no, a pound of that will do⁠—see you get Buggins’s, for I won’t have any other⁠—no, only the best⁠—if you can’t get it there, try somewhere else⁠—yes, of course, homemade, no tinned stuff⁠—well then, do the best you can!” Finally, there was a chink of coin passing from paw to paw, the field-mouse was provided with an ample basket for his purchases, and off he hurried, he and his lantern.

The rest of the field-mice, perched in a row on the settle, their small legs swinging, gave themselves up to enjoyment of the fire, and toasted their chilblains till they tingled; while the Mole, failing to draw them into easy conversation, plunged into family history and made each of them recite the names of his numerous brothers, who were too young, it appeared, to be allowed to go out a-carolling this year, but looked forward very shortly to winning the parental consent.