He had killed a canary once, and once--it was very sad, and he did not quite know how it had happened--he had got on to the sideboard and eaten the cold beef while everyone was out at church on Sunday morning. The beef had been left there uncovered, and he was very hungry, and it smelt so good. He had climbed on to a chair and sniffed at it, and got a little nearer and nearer, and all the time he knew quite well he was doing wrong. And at last he jumped up and began to eat great juicy mouthfuls of it. Oh, how good it was! And he pulled it this way and that, and the cloth on the sideboard had got all crumpled up, and suddenly down went a dish of beetroot with a smash, and all the rich red juice streamed over the cloth and on to the carpet. He was frightened then, and turned to run away; but his broad, flat paws had got into the beetroot juice, and he left great marks all across the cloth. He heard the latchkey in the front-door just at that moment, and he ran upstairs and hid under Ethel's bed. Then the family came in, and he heard their cry of dismay, and Ethel called for him; but he only hid deeper under the bed. And then she came into the room, and said quite quietly, as if she knew he was there, though she never looked under the bed: 'Oh, Scamp! how could you?' And his broad tail went thump, thump against the floor. So he was dragged out and whipped, and he felt very much ashamed of himself. Oh dear! if he could only get back to them all he would never do such naughty things again!