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I wasn't seriously expecting that I would be able to speak at all now that I had become a mouse, so I got the shock of my life when I heard my own voice, my own perfectly normal rather loud voice, coming out of my tiny mouth.
It was wonderful. I was thrilled. I tried it again. ‘Bruno Jenkins, where are you?’ I called out. ‘If you can hear me, give a shout!’
My voice was exactly the same and just as loud as it had been when I was a boy. ‘Hey there, Bruno Jenkins!’ I called. ‘Where are you?’
There was no answer.
I pottered about between the seat-legs trying to get used to being so close to the ground. I decided I rather liked it. You are probably wondering why I wasn't depressed at all. I found myself thinking, What's so wonderful about being a little boy anyway? Why is that necessarily any better than being a mouse? I know that mice get hunted and they sometimes get poisoned or caught in traps. But little boys sometimes get killed, too. Little boys can be run over by motor-cars or they can die of some awful illness. Little boys have to go to school. Mice don't. Mice don't have to pass exams. Mice don't have to worry about money. Mice, as far as I can see, have only two enemies, humans and cats. My grandmother is a human, but I know for certain that she will always love me whoever I am. And she never, thank goodness, keeps a cat. When mice grow up, they don't ever have to go to war and fight against other mice. Mice, I felt pretty certain, all like each other. People don't.
Yes, I told myself, I don't think it is at all a bad thing to be a mouse.
I was wandering around the Ballroom floor thinking about all this when I spotted another mouse. It was crouching on the floor holding a piece of bread in its front paws and nibbling away at it with great gusto.
It had to be Bruno. ‘Hello, Bruno,’ I said.
He glanced up at me for about two seconds, then went right on guzzling.
‘What have you found?’ I asked him.
‘One of them dropped it,’ he answered. ‘It's a fish-paste sandwich. Pretty good.’
He too spoke with a perfectly normal voice. One would have expected that a mouse (if it was going to talk at all) would do so with the smallest and squeakiest voice you could imagine. It was terrifically funny to hear the voice of the rather loud-mouthed Bruno coming out of that tiny mouse's throat.
‘Listen, Bruno,’ I said. ‘Now that we are both mice, I think we ought to start thinking a bit about the future.’
He stopped eating and stared at me with small black eyes. ‘What do you mean we?’ he said. ‘The fact that you're a mouse has nothing to do with me.’
‘But you're a mouse, too, Bruno.’
‘Don't be a fool,’ he said. ‘I'm not a mouse.’
‘I'm afraid you are, Bruno.’
‘I most certainly am not!’ he shouted. ‘Why are you insulting me? I haven't been rude to you! Why do you call me a mouse?’
‘Don't you know what's happened to you?’ I said.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Bruno said.
‘I have to inform you,’ I said, ‘that not very long ago the witches turned you into a mouse. Then they did it to me.’
‘You're lying!’ he cried. ‘I'm not a mouse!’
‘If you hadn't been so busy guzzling that sandwich,’ I said, ‘you would have noticed your hairy paws. Take a look at them.’
Bruno looked down at his paws. He jumped. ‘Good grief!’ he cried. ‘I am a mouse! You wait till my father hears about this!’
‘He may think it's an improvement,’ I said.
‘I don't want to be a mouse!’ Bruno shouted, jumping up and down. ‘I refuse to be a mouse! I'm Bruno Jenkins!’
‘There are worse things than being a mouse,’ I said. ‘You can live in a hole.’
‘I don't want to live in a hole!’ Bruno shouted.
‘And you can creep into the larder at night,’ I said, ‘and nibble through all the packets of raisins and cornflakes and chocolate biscuits and everything else you can find. You can stay there all night eating yourself silly. That's what mice do.’
‘Now that's a thought,’ Bruno said, perking up a bit. ‘But how am I going to open the door of the fridge to get at the cold chicken and all the leftovers? That's something I do every evening at home.’
