THIEVES OF THE NIGHT 



Again calling, and listening once more, I felt 

 sure there was something moving, so turning 

 back my sleeve I put my arm up the dirty, 

 sooty, old chimney ; instantly small feet clasped 

 my arm, and a moment later my rat was in my 

 hands. Oh ! poor Whiskers ! He was black 

 with soot, he was half-starved and very thin, 

 his fur which had been smooth was harsh and 

 staring, and he was covered with bites from 

 head to foot. What a battle he must have had 

 with some wild rat. I only hope that he killed 

 his enemy, for it practically killed him, as he 

 never got over his adventures. He never 

 recovered his old sleek look; he got weaker 

 and weaker, until at last all he cared for 

 was to lie and be petted. We got all sorts 

 of good things for him, but it was all vain, 

 and he died two months later, when he was 

 just two years old. Poor old Whiskers, a more 

 affectionate and intelligent creature no one 

 could have wished to meet with, and, whatever 

 the sins and robberies of his kind, he was 

 entirely lovable. 



I have said that Whiskers was just a common 

 rat, the kind that in books is called by various 

 names, such as the grey, brown, Norwegian, or 

 Hanoverian rat. The reason of the two latter 



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