"But who's going to bell the cat?"
Not that they would have got far with even the staunchest hero, for Puss was watchful and informed. The floorboards were ribboned with his termite army--devoted and groomed by milk-fed years. Long-eared crickets were stationed at their doorposts, fiddling with their alarms. And a season ago, the cat, with a canny eye to the future, had captured and tormented the family of one Gouda Silkwhisker. Broken by grief and widowhood, the old mouse was left free to roam, whispering to himself and the walls and to less benign audiences--all unknowing informant. He would have wept at the comparison, and the others would have turned up their noses at the suggestion, but there was no doubt a mole among the mouses.
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