The Borrowers: Chapters 18–20

He saw the gaping hole in the floor and the objects piled beside it and, in the same flash, he saw a candle on the shelf.

Yes, there they lay—the contents of the little home—higgledy-piggledy on the boards and the tongs lay beside them.

The “house” itself was a shambles—partitions fallen, earth floors revealed (where Pod had dug down to give greater height to the rooms), match-sticks, an old cogwheel, onion skins, scattered bottle tops....The boy stared, blinking his eyelids and tilting the candle so that the grease ran hot on his hand.

Homily gave a little moan of assent. “Yes,” she said, “the doll’s house....”

The boy looked round the kitchen; he seemed bewildered.

She did not smile, but something lightened in her eyes—a malicious gleam, a look of triumph.

“Do you know what you are?” asked Mrs. Driver, watching him closely. “You are a sneaking, thieving, noxious little dribbet of no-good!”

“You know why. You’re a wicked, black-hearted, fribbling little pickpocket. That’s what you are. And so are they. They’re nasty little crafty, scampy, scurvy, squeaking little—”
“No, they’re not,” he put in quickly.

“You know why. You’re a wicked, black-hearted, fribbling little pickpocket. That’s what you are. And so are they. They’re nasty little crafty, scampy, scurvy, squeaking little—”
“No, they’re not,” he put in quickly.

She loved to grumble, and my brother, rendered harmless and shut away upstairs, became a kind of neutral.

‘Sitting down there he is now, in the kitchen, large as life with his notebook out, laughing fit to bust...twenty-one, he says he is now, and as cheeky as you make ’em...'

“Of course not. Any more than my brother was. Ernie Runacre was a fine, upstanding young man and a credit to the police force. And he did not actually laugh at Mrs. Driver when she told him her story, but he gave her what Crampfurl spoke of afterwards as ‘an old-fashioned look’ when she described Homily in bed—‘Take more water with it,’ it seemed to say.”

"...It was Crampfurl’s cat, a large yellow tom with white streaks in it. According to Mrs. Driver, it had only two ideas in its head—to get out of the house or into the larder...."

“Did they catch it?”
“No.” Mrs. May laughed. “It was still there when I went, a year later. A little morose, but as fit as a fiddle.”

“Everybody knew him. He had a wall eye and his name was Rich William. He was also the pig-killer, and, well—he did other things as well—he had a gun, a hatchet, a spade, a pick-ax, and a contraption with bellows for smoking things out...."

“Everybody knew him. He had a wall eye and his name was Rich William. He was also the pig-killer, and, well—he did other things as well—he had a gun, a hatchet, a spade, a pick-ax, and a contraption with bellows for smoking things out...."

“Helpless with mirth Aunt Sophy waved a ringed hand toward her, her eyes were screwed up and her shoulders shaking: ‘Keep the bottle corked,’ she managed at last and motioned them weakly away...."

‘So it has,’ she said; her jaw dropped and her cheeks became heavy and pendulous.

We aren’t going to have no more capers of that kind. Not under the clock. Once you get that clock back, it can’t be moved again in a hurry.

“But the kitchen, as she dragged him past the baize door, seemed a babel of sound. No approaching cab could be heard here—what with yelps and barks and stampings and excited voices...."

He had lighted something beneath a piece of sacking and the stench of its smoldering eddied about the room. He was working the bellows now, with infinite care, stooping over them—rapt and tense.

He had lighted something beneath a piece of sacking and the stench of its smoldering eddied about the room. He was working the bellows now, with infinite care, stooping over them—rapt and tense.

‘Keep back,’ said the rat-catcher, without turning. ‘Give us room—’ and Mrs. Driver backed nervously toward the table. She put a chair beside it and half raised one knee, but lowered it again when she caught Ernie Runacre’s mocking glance.

"...Stealthily my brother drew off his gloves and began to move backwards...slowly...slowly...toward the green baize door; as he moved, gently stuffing his gloves into his pocket, he kept his eyes on the group around the hole...."

"...He paused a moment beside the rat-catcher’s tools, and stretched out a wary, groping hand; his fingers closed at last on a wooden handle—smooth it was and worn with wear; he glanced down quickly to make sure—yes, it was, as he hoped, the pick-ax...."

"...He leaned back a little and pushed—almost imperceptibly—against the door with his shoulders: it opened sweetly, in its silent way...."

"...He was not, as I have told you, a very strong little boy, and he was only nine (not ten, as he had boasted to Arrietty) but, with two great blows on the brickwork, he dislodged one end of the grating...."

“Destitute,” said Mrs. May patiently, “and Lupy wasn’t there remember. Lupy never came back. And you know what Homily would do? Can’t you see her—she’d be in her element. She would tie on her apron at once and cry ‘...these poor silly men,’ and she’d bustle and fuss and cook and clean and make them wipe their feet when they came in.”

"...These were boys remember; they would learn to hunt for the pot and how to protect themselves. I don’t suppose Arrietty and Homily would wander far afield.”

“Well,” she conceded at last, “I’ll tell you. For what it’s worth. When I went to stay in that house it was just before Aunt Sophy went into the nursing home. ..."