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.

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 a-ringing.  But when the Piper stepped ashore and not so much as a single squeak was to be heard, the Mayor and the Council, and the townsfolk generally, began to hum and to ha and to shake their heads.

For the town money chest had been sadly emptied of late, and where was the fifty pounds to come from?  Such an easy job, too!  Just getting into a boat and playing a pipe!  Why the Mayor himself could have done that if only he had thought of it.

So he hummed and ha’ad and at last, “Come, my good man,” said he, “you see what poor folk we are; how can we manage to pay you fifty pounds?  Will you not take twenty?  When all is said and done, ’t will be good pay for the trouble you’ve taken.”

“Fifty pounds was what I bargained for,” said the piper shortly; “and if I were you I’d pay it quickly.  For I can pipe many kinds of tunes, as folk sometimes find to their cost.”

“Would you threaten us, you strolling vagabond?” shrieked the Mayor, and at the same time he winked to the Council; “the rats are all dead and drowned,” muttered he; and so “You may do your worst, my good man,” and with that he turned short upon his heel.