The comb will sprout up into such a forest that she will never get through it at all."
"But she'll hear the loom stop," said Natasha, "and she'll know I have gone."
"Don't worry, I'll take care of that," said the thin black cat.
The cat took Natasha's place at the loom.
Clickety clack, clickety clack; the loom never stopped for a moment.
Natasha looked to see that Baba Yaga was still in the bath-house, and then she jumped out of the hut.
The big dog leapt up to tear her to pieces. Just as he was going to spring on her he saw who she was.
"Why, this is the little girl who gave me the bread and meat," said the dog. "A good journey to you, little girl," and he lay down with his head between his paws. She petted his head and scratched his ears.
When she came to the gates they opened quietly, quietly, without making any noise at all, because of the oil she had poured into their hinges before.
Then -- how she did run!
Meanwhile the thin black cat sat at the loom. Clickety clack, clickety clack, sang the loom; but you never saw such a tangle of yarn as the tangle made by that thin black cat.
Presently Baba Yaga came to the window.
"Are you weaving, little niece?" she asked in a high-pitched voice. "Are you weaving, my pretty?"
"I am weaving, auntie," said the thin black cat, tangling and tangling the yarn, while the loom went clickety clack, clickety clack.
"That's not the voice of my little dinner," said Baba Yaga, and she jumped into the hut, gnashing her iron teeth. There at the loom was no little girl, but only the thin black cat, tangling and tangling the threads!
"Grrr!" said Baba Yaga, and she jumped at the cat. "Why didn't you scratch the little girl's eyes out?"
The cat curled up its tail and arched its back.