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pins and on one shoulder, in a row, three threaded needles. Arrietty had a strange thought: did human beings look like this, she wondered, without their clothes? Were they, unlike the borrowers, perhaps not made of flesh and blood at all? Come to think of it, as "Mabel" had put down the plate, there had been a kind of creaking; and it stood to reason that, to keep such bulk erect, there must surely be some secret form of scaffolding.
    Above the mantelshelf, on either side, were gas brackets of tarnished brass. From one hung a length of measuring tape, marked in inches. On the shelf itself she saw the edge of a chipped saucer, the blades of what must be a pair of cutting-out scissors, and a large iron horseshoe propped upside down.
    At right angles to the fireplace, pulled out from the sloping wall, she saw a treadle sewing machine; it was like one she remembered at Firbank. Above the sewing machine, hanging on a nail, was the inner tube of a bicycle tire and a bunch of raffia. There were two trunks, several piles of magazines, and some broken slatted chairs. Between the trunks, leaning at an angle, was the shrimping net that had achieved their capture. Homily glanced at the bamboo handle and, shuddering, averted her eyes.
    On the other side of the room was a fair-sized kitchen table, pushed against the wall, and beside it a ladder-back chair. The table was piled with various neat stacks of plates and saucers and other things, which from floor level were difficult to recognize.
    On the floor, beyond the chair and immediately below the window, stood a solid box of walnut veneer, inlaid with tarnished brass. The veneer was cracked and peeling. "It's a dressing case," said Pod, who had seen something like it at Firbank, "or one of those folding writing desks. No, it isn't though," he went on as he walked around to the far side. "It's got a handle—"
    "It's a musical box," said Arrietty.
    After a moment of seeming stuck, the handle wound quite easily. They could turn it as one turned an old-fashioned mangle, though the upward swing at its highest limit was difficult to control. Homily could manage, though, with her long wrists and arms; she was a little taller than Pod. There was a grinding sound from within the box, and suddenly the tune tinkled out. It was fairylike and charming, but somehow a little sad. It ended very abruptly.
    "Oh, play it again!" cried Arrietty.
    "No, that's enough," said Pod. "We've got to get on." He was staring again toward the table.
    "Just once," pleaded Arrietty.
    "All right," he said, "but hurry up. We haven't got all day..."
    And while they played their encore, he stood in the middle of the room, gazing thoughtfully at the table top.
    When at last they came beside him, he said, "It's worthwhile getting up there!"
    "Don't see quite how you could," said Homily.
    "Quiet," said Pod, "I'm getting it..."
    Obediently they stood silent, watching the direction of his eyes as he gauged the height of the ladder-back chair and then, turning his back on it, glanced up at the raffia on the opposite wall, took in the position of the pins in the bosom of the dressmaker's dummy, and turned back again to the table. Homily and Arrietty held their breaths, aware some great issue was at stake.
    "Easy," said Pod at last, "child's play," and, smiling, he rubbed his hands; it always cheered him to solve a professional problem. "Some good stuff up there, I shouldn't wonder."
    "But what good can it do us," asked Homily, "seeing there's no way out?"
    "Well, you never know," said Pod. "Anyway," he went on briskly, "keeps your hand in and your mind off."

Chapter Thirteen
    The next two or three days established their daily routine. At about nine o'clock each morning, Mr. or Mrs. Platter—or both—would arrive with their food. They would air the attic, clear away the dirty plates, and generally set the borrowers up for the day. Mrs. Platter, to Homily's fury, persisted with the cat treatment: a saucer of milk, a bowl of water,