07-NO MORE SNAILS!

NO MORE SNAILS! It was Prowls, the Black Bandit's brother. "Mice at last! No more snails!" he meowed. "Keep quiet, you nitwit!" snapped the Bandit. Then he turned to us. "Four plump mice," he murmured.

He looked down at his sharp claws as if he were longing for a nail file. Then he glanced at a cat in an apron who was huffing and puffing in the corner, He was busy roasting a long rod of snails over a fire. "So tell me, where are you from?" asked the Bandit, curling his tail into a question mark. Just then, Prowls began dancing around the room in a whirl of yellow. He stopped in front of Trap and pricked him with his sword. "What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?"

I glanced at my cousin. He was snorting like Scar Rat, the famous boxer, before a big match. "If you were on our island, you wouldn't have a tongue!" Trap shrieked. "Jumping tuna fish!" cried the Black Bandit. "Do you mean you are from Mouse Island? Our ship has been searching for ages for that place! It sounds amazing!" "Amaaaaazzzing!" echoed the other cats. "Amaaaaazzzzing!" shouted Prowls. He was out of beat with the other cats. "Pipe down, you ninny!" raged the Bandit, crushing his brother's tail with the heel of his boot.

"Meeeeowwww!" cried Prowls. The Bandit brushed Prowls's fur off his boot. Once again he turned toward us. "So, tell us where your island is. We will take you back immediately," he purred. "Oh, we don't want to go back," I said, pretending not to care. "And why not?" asked the Bandit, narrowing his eyes. "Well, you see, the four of us are the only survivors of a terrible sickness," I whispered, thinking quickly. We had to stop these bandit cats from finding Mouse Island! "Yes, acutis fungus mousitis, a very contagious disease, has wiped out the whole population! So we left, hoping to find another island of rodents." I wiped away a fake tear.

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The Black Bandit scratched his head with one long claw. "So there are no mice on the island?" he mumbled, DRUMMING the table with his claws. Meanwhile, a greasy cat began playing a violin. "What would Your Excellency like to hear?" he asked, slimy as melted cheddar. "'The Ballad of the Killer Cat'? Or 'The Dance of the Pouncing Paws'?" But the Bandit only had eyes for us. "That's enough, Patches! Enough playing for today!" he growled. Then he signaled for me to step closer. "Come on," he hissed. "Are you telling