"To be beaten, and caned, and cuffed, and shaken, two or three times a-day," cried he, whisking his tails about like an angry lion, "I say it's a shame."
"If you were not well thrashed," said the Cane, "you'd soon get thick with dust, and then I'd like to know how you'd look."
"So I say," remarked the Hat.
"It's all very well for you to talk, Mr. Cane," said the Coat, still more in a rage. "Nobody ever hits you, and if they did, you could hit back. And as for you, Mr. Hat, nobody ever thinks of punching you, except in fun. You have a nice soft brush all to yourself."
"Well, are you not brushed as well?" asked the Hat.
"I don't mind being brushed," said the Coat, "but the next time Mr. Valet comes along, and hits me, I'll—I'll—" then he growled something to himself, whisked his tails, and added, "See if I don't."
In came the Valet, and bustled about. The Coat eyed him, and when he came close, caught him up with such a clutch.
"Hallo, hallo, hallo!" cried the Valet. "What are you doing?"
But the Coat hung the Valet on a nail, and snatched up the Cane.
"Now, look here, Mister Valet," said he. "I'm not going to be dusted and beaten and thumped. I'm just going to show you what it feels like, Mister Valet."
"What are you talking about, you stupid old Coat?" said the Valet.
"I'll let you see," said the Coat, flourishing the Cane.
The Cane could not help himself, for he was thin.