THE MOUSE by Saki (Hector Hugh Munro)

Theodoric Voler had been brought up, from infancy to the confines of
middle age, by a fond mother whose chief solicitude had been to keep
him screened from what she called the coarser realities of life.
When she died she left Theodoric alone in a world that was as real
as ever, and a good deal coarser than he considered it had any need
to be. To a man of his temperament and upbringing even a simple
railway journey was crammed with petty annoyances and minor
discords, and as he settled himself down in a secondclass
compartment one September morning he was conscious of ruffled
feelings and general mental discomposure. He had been staying at a
country vicarage, the inmates of which had been certainly neither
brutal nor bacchanalian, but their supervision of the domestic
establishment had been of that lax order which invites disaster.
The pony carriage that was to take him to the station had never been
properly ordered, and when the moment for his departure drew near
the handy-man who should have produced the required article was
nowhere to be found. In this emergency Theodoric, to his mute but
very intense disgust, found himself obliged to collaborate with the
vicar's daughter in the task of harnessing the pony, which
necessitated groping about in an ill-lighted outhouse called a
stable, and smelling very like one — except in patches where it smelt
of mice. Without being actually afraid of mice, Theodoric classed
them among the coarser incidents of life, and considered that
Providence, with a little exercise of moral courage, might long ago
have recognised that they were not indispensable, and have withdrawn
them from circulation. As the train glided out of the station
Theodoric's nervous imagination accused himself of exhaling a weak
odour of stable-yard, and possibly of displaying a mouldy straw or
two on his usually well-brushed garments. Fortunately the only
other occupant of the compartment, a lady of about the same age as
himself, seemed inclined for slumber rather than scrutiny; the train
was not due to stop till the terminus was reached, in about an
hour's time, and the carriage was of the old-fashioned sort, that
held no communication with a corridor, therefore no further
travelling companions were likely to intrude on Theodoric's semi-
privacy. And yet the train had scarcely attained its normal speed
before he became reluctantly but vividly aware that he was not alone
with the slumbering lady; he was not even alone in his own clothes.
A warm, creeping movement over his flesh betrayed the unwelcome and
highly resented presence, unseen but poignant, of a strayed mouse,
that had evidently dashed into its present retreat during the
episode of the pony harnessing. Furtive stamps and shakes and
wildly directed pinches failed to dislodge the intruder, whose
motto, indeed, seemed to be Excelsior; and the lawful occupant of
the clothes lay back against the cushions and endeavoured rapidly to
evolve some means for putting an end to the dual ownership. It was
unthinkable that he should continue for the space of a whole hour in
the horrible position of a Rowton House for vagrant mice (already
his imagination had at least doubled the numbers of the alien
invasion). On the other hand, nothing less drastic than partial
disrobing would ease him of his tormentor, and to undress in the
presence of a lady, even for so laudable a purpose, was an idea that
made his eartips tingle in a blush of abject shame.