promised him (and it meant a lot of money in those old days) as soon as
not a rat was left to squeak or scurry in Franchville.

Out of the hall stepped the Piper, and as he stepped he laid his pipe to
his lips and a shrill keen tune sounded through street and house. And as
each note pierced the air you might have seen a strange sight. For out
of every hole the rats came tumbling. There were none too old and none
too young, none too big and none too little to crowd at the Piper's
heels and with eager feet and upturned noses to patter after him as he
paced the streets. Nor was the Piper unmindful of the little toddling
ones, for every fifty yards he'd stop and give an extra flourish on his
pipe just to give them time to keep up with the older and stronger of
the band.

Up Silver Street he went, and down Gold Street, and at the end of Gold
Street is the harbour and the broad Solent beyond. And as he paced
along, slowly and gravely, the townsfolk flocked to door and window, and
many a blessing they called down upon his head.

As for getting near him there were too many rats. And now that he was at
the water's edge he stepped into a boat, and not a rat, as he shoved off
into deep water, piping shrilly all the while, but followed him,
plashing, paddling, and wagging their tails with delight. On and on he
played and played until the tide went down, and each master rat sank
deeper and deeper in the slimy ooze of the harbour, until every mother's
son of them was dead and smothered.

The tide rose again, and the Piper stepped on shore, but never a rat
followed. You may fancy the townsfolk had been throwing up their caps
and hurrahing and stopping up rat holes and setting the church bells