Brownie had no notion of going to sleep. He wanted his supper, and
oh! what a supper he did eat! first one thing and then another, and then
trying every thing all over again. And oh! what a lot he drank--first
milk and then cider, and then mixed the two together in a way that would
have disagreed with any body except a Brownie. As it was, he was obliged
to slacken his belt several times, and at last took it off altogether.
But he must have had a most extraordinary capacity for eating and
drinking--since, after he had nearly cleared the table, he was just as
lively as if he had had no supper at all.

Now his jumping was a little awkward, for there happened to be a clean
white tablecloth: as this was only Monday, it had had no time to get
dirty--untidy as the Cook was. And you know Brownie lived in a
coal-cellar, and his feet were black with running about in coal dust. So
wherever he trod, he left the impression behind, until at last the whole
tablecloth was covered with black marks.

Not that he minded this; in fact, he took great pains to make the cloth
as dirty as possible; and then laughing loudly, "Ho, ho, ho!" leaped on
to the hearth, and began teasing the cat; squeaking like a mouse, or
chirping like a cricket, or buzzing like a fly; and altogether
disturbing poor Pussy's mind so much, that she went and hid herself in
the farthest corner, and left him the hearth all to himself, where he
lay at ease till daybreak.

Then, hearing a slight noise overhead, which might be the servants
getting up, he jumped on to the table again--gobbled up the few
remaining crumbs for his breakfast, and scampered off to his
coal-cellar; where he hid himself under his big coal, and fell asleep
for the day.

Well, the Cook came downstairs rather earlier than usual, for she
remembered she had to clear off the remains of supper; but lo and
behold, there was nothing left to clear. Every bit of food was eaten
up--the cheese looked as if a dozen mice had been nibbling at it, and
nibbled it down to the very rind; the milk and cider were all drunk--and
mice don't care for milk and cider, you know. As for the apple-pudding,
it had vanished altogether; and the dish was licked as clean as if
Boxer, the yard-dog, had been at it in his hungriest mood.

"And my white table-cloth--oh, my clean white table-cloth! What can have
been done to it?" cried she, in amazement. For it was all over little
black footmarks, just the size of a baby's foot--onl