“It is very unpleasant, I am afraid of the police,” said Pickles.

“It is your own fault for being a terrier; I do not require a license, and neither does Kep, the Collie dog.”

“And I feel sure that Anna Maria pockets things—­

“Where are all the cream crackers?”

“You have eaten them yourself.” replied Ginger.

Ginger and Pickles retired into the back parlor.

They did accounts.  They added up sums and sums, and sums.

“Samuel Whiskers has run up a bill as long as his tail; he has had an ounce and three-quarters of snuff since October.

“What is seven pounds of butter at 1/3, and a stick of sealing wax and four matches?”

“Send in all the bills again to everybody `with compliments,’” replied Ginger.

Pickles nearly had a fit, he barked and he barked and made little rushes.

“Bite him, Pickles! bite him!” spluttered Ginger behind a sugar barrel, “he’s only a German doll!”

The policeman went on writing in his notebook; twice he put his pencil in his mouth, and once he dipped it in the treacle.

Pickles barked till he was hoarse.  But still the policeman took no notice.  He had bead eyes, and his helmet was sewed on with stitches.

After a time they heard a noise in the shop, as if something had been pushed in at the door.  They came out of the back parlor.  There was an envelope lying on the counter, and a policeman writing in a notebook!

At length on his last little rush—­Pickles found that the shop was empty.  The policeman had disappeared.

But the envelope remained.

“Do you think that he has gone to fetch a real live policeman?  I am afraid it is a summons,” said Pickles.

“No,” replied Ginger, who had opened the envelope, “it is the rates and taxes, 3 pounds 19 11 3/4.” [pounds are British money, the 19 is schillings, and then pence]

“This is the last straw,” said Pickles, “let us close the shop.”

They put up the shutters, and left.  But they have not removed from the neighborhood.  In fact some people wish they had gone further.

Ginger is living in the warren [game preserve for rabbits].  I do not know what occupation he pursues; he looks stout and comfortable.

Pickles is at present a game-keeper.

After a time Mr. John Dormouse and his daughter began to sell peppermints and candles.

But they did not keep “self-fitting sixes”; and it takes five mice to carry one seven inch candle.

The closing of the shop caused great inconvenience.  Tabitha Twitchit immediately raised the price of everything a halfpenny; and she continued to refuse to give credit.

Of course there are the tradesmen’s carts—­the butcher, the fishman and Timothy Baker.

But a person cannot live on “seed wigs” and sponge cake and butter buns—­not even when the sponge cake is as good as Timothy’s!