He
shuffles forward carefully, gently even, making sure he doesn't stand
on a single one of the rats. As he does, he lets his humming build,
first in his throat then louder with his mouth, slowly waiting for
the throng to notice him. It's just a nose or two at first, the
occasional twitch of a whisker in his direction. But it's not long
before beady, shining eyes are watching him: inquisitive, attentive.
Once he's sure he's being observed, watched, analysed, he switches
from humming to a jaunty whistle, picking up the tempo of the tune
and adding an occasional skip to his gait. In a matter of moments he
knows he has them: all eyes are on him now, full of curiosity and
wonder. He continues his whistling, his shambling now more a
drunkards dance, waiting for their leader to appear. He doesn't have
to wait long for the mischief leader to make an appearance, emerging
from a gutter to rest on hind legs, upright, watching. That's his
cue: he bends over, offering the big rat an ostentatious bow. As he
stands, he pulls a simple pipe from his pocket, raising it to his
lips to play an infectious rhythm, dancing a merry jig as he does.
