‘David took it to bed; more fool he,’ said the cow. ‘He couldn’t be much more of a fool than he is,’ grunted the pig. ‘He knows nothing about us really.’ At this moment David heard an irregular kind of hopping noise coming down the passage, and, just as he turned to look, the pin-partridge ran between his legs. It flew on to the roof of the ark, and began pecking at it. ‘Let me in,’ it shouted. ‘I believe it’s the first of September. What cads you fellows are not to let me in!’ ‘You always think it’s the first of September,’ said the cow. ‘Now look at me; I’m milked every day, which must hurt me much more than being shot once.’ ‘Not if it’s properly done,’ said the partridge. ‘I know lots of cows who like it.’ ‘But it’s improperly done,’ said the cow. ‘David knows less about milking than anybody since the flood. You wait till I catch him alone, and see if I can’t teach him something about tossing.’ This sounded a very awful threat, and David, who knew that it was best to take cows as well as bulls by the horns, determined on a bold policy. ‘If I hear one word more about tossing, I shan’t let any of you out,’ he said. There was dead silence. ‘Who’s that?’ said the cow in a trembling voice, for she was a coward as well as a cow. ‘It’s me!’ said David. There was a confused whispering within. ‘We can’t stop here all night.’ ‘Say you won’t toss him.’ ‘You can’t anyhow, because your horns are both broken.’ ‘Less noise in there,’ said Noah suddenly, from the next compartment. The cow began whimpering. ‘I’m a poor old woman,’ she said, ‘and everybody’s very hard on me, considering the milk and butter I’ve given you.’ ‘Chalk and water and margarine,’ said the pin-partridge, who had been listening with his ear to the roof. ‘Do say you won’t toss him. I can’t see him, but he’s somewhere close to me.’ ‘Very well. I won’t toss him. Open the roof, boy.’ David was not sure that Noah would like this, as he was the ark-master, but he felt that his having said that he would keep the roof shut unless the cow promised, meant that he would open it if she did, and so he lifted the roof about an inch. At that moment Noah’s head appeared. He was standing on Shem’s head, who was standing on Ham’s head, who was standing on Japheth’s head, who was standing on his mother’s head. They always came out of their room in this way, partly in order to get plenty of practice in case of fire, and partly because they couldn’t be certain that the flood had gone down, and were afraid that if they opened the door, which is the usual way of leaving a room, the water might come in. When Noah had climbed on to the top of the wall, he pulled Shem after him, who pulled Ham, who pulled Japheth, who pulled Mrs. Noah, and there they all stood like a row of sparrows on a telegraph wire, balancing themselves with great, difficulty. ‘Who’s been meddling with my roof?’ asked Noah, in an angry voice. ‘I believe it’s that pin-partridge.’