else to do with it--had cut it loose from the oar that served as a
mast and wrapped it round and round his body, tying himself tightly
with a piece of string.

Rudolf thought he had never in his life seen people in a boat do so
many queer and unnecessary things in so short a time as those two
mice did. They would stop rowing every few minutes and begin sweeping
out the floor of their boat with a small broom, dusting seats,
cushions, and oar-locks with a little feather duster tied with a pink
ribbon. Then, after a few, rapid, nervous strokes at the oars, one or
the other of them would pull his blade out of the water and polish it
anxiously with his handkerchief, as if the important thing was to keep
it dry. They would probably never have reached land that day if this
had depended on their own efforts, but luckily the breeze was blowing
them in the right direction.

All this time the False Hare had been waiting on the rock, and now as
the boat was almost within reach, he began leaping up and down,
clapping his paws and calling out in the heartiest tones: "Go it, my
dear old Salts! Hurrah, my fine Jack Tars! You're a pair of swell old
sea-dogs, you are. Only don't _hurt_ yourselves, you know. We wouldn't
like to see you _work_!"

It seemed as if the white mice knew the False Hare and the value of
his remarks, for they made no attempt to answer him, but only looked
more and more frightened and uncomfortable. When their boat was at
last beached, they jumped out of it, turned their backs to the rest of
the party, and standing as close together as they could get, gazed
anxiously out over the water. Seen close by there was something
familiar about the look of these mice to the three children, yes, even