"I'm called the Pied Piper," he began. "And pray what might you be
willing to pay me, if I rid you of every single rat in Franchville?"
Well, much as they feared the rats, they feared parting with their money
more, and fain would they have higgled and haggled. But the Piper was
not a man to stand nonsense, and the upshot was that fifty pounds were
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.
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