”Fine!” said Charlotte. “Seven is a lucky number.”"Luck had nothing to do with this,” said the goose. “It was good management and hard work.”At this point, Templeton showed his nose from his hiding place under Wilbur’s trough. He glanced at Fern, then crept cautiously toward the goose, keeping close to the wall. Everyone watched him, for he was not well liked, not trusted.

　　”Look,” he began in his sharp voice, “you say you have seven goslings. There were eight eggs. What happened to the other egg? Why didn’t it hatch?”"It’s a dud, I guess,” said the goose.

　　”What are you going to do with it?” continued Templeton, his little round beady eyes fixed on the goose.

　　”You can have it,” replied the goose. “Roll it away and add it to that nasty collection of yours.” (Templeton had a habit of picking up unusual objects around the farm and storing them in his home. He saved everything.)”Certainly-ertainly-ertainly,” said the gander. “You may have the egg. But I’ll tell you one thing, Templeton, if I ever catch you poking-oking-oking your ugly nose around our goslings, I’ll give you the worst pounding a rat ever took.” And the gander opened his strong wings and beat the air with them to show his power. He was strong and brave, but the truth is, both the goose and the gander were worried about Templeton. And with good reason. The rat had no morals, no conscience, no scruples, no consideration, no decency, no milk of rodent kindness, no compunctions, no higher feeling, no friendliness, no anything. He would kill a gosling if he could get away with it–the goose knew that. Everybody knew it.