The nursery was full of Persian cats and musk-rats that had been
brought there by the Wishing Carpet. The cats were mewing and the musk
rats were squeaking so that you could hardly hear yourself speak. In
the kitchen were the four children, one candle, a concealed Phoenix,
and a very visible policeman.
"Now, then, look here," said the policeman, very loudly, and he
pointed his lantern at each child in turn; "what's the meaning of this
here yelling and caterwauling? I tell you you've got a cat here, and
someone's a-illtreating of it. What do you mean by it, eh?"
It was five to one, counting the Phoenix, but the policeman, who
was one, was of unusually fine size, and the five, including the
Phoenix, were small. The mews and the squeaks grew softer, and in the
comparative silence Cyril said:--
"It's true. There are a few cats here. But we've not hurt them. It's
quite the opposite. We've just fed them."
"It don't sound like it," said the policeman, grimly.
"If you understood anything except people who steal and do murders and
stealings and naughty things like that I'd tell you all about it," said
Robert, "but I'm certain you don't. You're not meant to shove your oar
into people's private cat-keepings. You're only supposed to interfere
when people shout 'Murder!' and 'Stop thief!' in the street. So there!"
The policeman assured them that he should see about that, and at this
point the Phoenix, who had been making itself small on the pot-shelf
under the dresser, among the saucepan-lids and the fish-kettle, walked
on tip-toed claws in a noiseless and modest manner, and left the room
unnoticed by anyone.
"Oh, don't be so horrid!" Anthea was saying, gently and earnestly. "We
_love_ cats--dear, pussy-soft things. We wouldn't hurt them for worlds.
Would we, Pussy?"
And Jane answered that of course they wouldn't.
And still the policeman seemed unmoved by their eloquence.
"Now, look here," he said, "I'm a going to see what's in that room
beyond there--and----"
His voice was drowned in a wild burst of mewing and squeaking.
And as soon as it died down all four children began to explain at once,
and though the squeaking and mewing were not at their very loudest, yet
there was quite enough of both to make it very hard for the policeman
to understand a single word of any of the four wholly different
explanations now poured out to him.
"Stow it!" he said, at last. "I'm a-going into the next room in the
execution of my duty. I'm a-going to use my eyes--my ears are gone off
their chumps, what with you and them cats."
And he pushed Robert aside and strode through the door.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," said Robert.
"It's tigers, _really_," said Jane. "Father said so. I wouldn't go in
if I were you."
But the policeman was quite stony; nothing anyone said seemed to make
any difference to him. Some policemen are like this, I believe. He
strode down the passage, and in another moment he would have been in
the room with all the cats and all the rats (musk), but at that very
instant a thin, sharp voice screamed from the street outside:--
"Murder! Murder! Stop thief!"
The policeman stopped, with one regulation boot heavily poised in the
air.
"Eh?" he said.
And again the shrieks sounded shrilly and piercingly from the dark
street outside.
"Come on," said Robert. "Come and look after cats while somebody's
being killed outside." For Robert had an inside feeling that told him
quite plainly _who_ it was that was screaming.
"You young rip!" said the policeman. "I'll settle up with you bimeby."
And he rushed out; and the children heard his boots going weightily
along the pavement, and the screams also going along rather ahead of
the policeman, and both the murder-screams and the policeman's boots
faded away in the remote distance.