"Good old Phɶnix! I should know its golden voice anywhere."
And then everyone understood how cleverly the Phɶnix had caught at
what Robert had said about the real work of a policeman being to look
after murderers and thieves, and not after cats, and all hearts were
filled with admiring affection.
[Illustration: "THE POLICEMAN STOPPED, WITH ONE REGULATION BOOT POISED
IN THE AIR."]
"But he'll come back," said Anthea, mournfully, "as soon as he finds
the murderer is only a bright vision of a dream, and there isn't one at
all really."
"No, he won't," said the soft voice of the clever Phɶnix, as he flew
in. "_He does not know where your house is._ I heard him own as much to
a fellow-mercenary. Oh! what a night we are having! Lock the door, and
let us rid ourselves of this intolerable smell of the perfume peculiar
to the musk-rat and to the house of the trimmers of beards. If you'll
excuse me I will go to bed. I am worn out."
It was Cyril who wrote the paper that told the carpet to take away the
rats and bring milk, because there seemed to be no doubt in any breast
that, however Persian cats may be, they must like milk.
"Let's hope it won't be musk-milk," said Anthea, in gloom, as she
pinned the paper face-downwards on the carpet. "Is there such a thing
as a musk-cow?" she added, anxiously, as the carpet shrivelled and
vanished. "I do hope not. Perhaps, really, it _would_ have been wiser
to let the carpet take the cats away. It's getting quite late, and we
can't keep them all night."
"Oh, can't we?" was the bitter rejoinder of Robert, who had been
fastening the side door. "You might have consulted me," he went on.
"I'm not such an idiot as some people."
"Why, whatever----"
[Illustration: "ROBERT AND CYRIL HELD THE COW BY THE HORNS."]
"Don't you see? We've jolly well _got_ to keep the cats all night--oh,
get down, you furry beasts!--because we've had three wishes out of the
old carpet now, and we can't get any more till to-morrow."
The liveliness of Persian mews alone prevented the occurrence of a
dismal silence.
Anthea spoke first. "Never mind," she said. "Do you know, I really do
think they're quieting down a bit. Perhaps they heard us say milk."
"They can't understand English," said Jane. "You forget they're Persian
cats, Panther."
"Well," said Anthea, rather sharply, for she was tired and anxious,
"who told you milk wasn't Persian for milk? Lots of English words are
just the same in French--at least, I know 'miaw' is, and croquet, and
_fiancé_. Oh, pussies, do be quiet! Let's stroke them as hard as we can
with both hands, and perhaps they'll stop."
So everyone stroked grey fur till their hands were tired, and as soon
as a cat had been stroked enough to make it stop mewing it was pushed
gently away, and another mewing mouser was approached by the hands
of the strokers. And the noise was really more than half purr when
the carpet suddenly appeared in its proper place, and on it, instead
of rows of milk-cans or even of milk-jugs, there was a _cow_. Not a
Persian cow, either; nor, most fortunately, a musk-cow, if there is
such a thing, but a smooth, sleek, dun-coloured Jersey cow, who blinked
large, soft eyes at the gaslight and mooed in an amiable, if rather
inquiring, manner.
Anthea had always been afraid of cows. But now she tried to be brave.
"Anyway, it can't run after me," she said to herself. "There isn't room
for it even to begin to run."
The cow was perfectly placid. She behaved like a strayed duchess till
someone brought a saucer for the milk and someone else tried to milk
the cow into it. Milking is very difficult. You may think it is easy,
but it is not. All the children were by this time strung up to a pitch
of heroism that would have been impossible to them in their ordinary
condition. Robert and Cyril held the cow by the horns, and when she
was quite sure that their end of the cow was secure Jane consented
to stand by, ready to hold the cow by the tail, should occasion
arise. Anthea, holding the saucer, now advanced towards the cow. She
remembered to have heard that cows, when milked by strangers, are
susceptible to the soothing influence of the human voice. So, clutching
her saucer very tight, she sought for words to whose soothing influence
the cow might be susceptible. And her memory, troubled by the events of
the night, which seemed to go on and on for ever and ever, refused to
help her with any form of words suitable to address a Jersey cow in.
"Poor pussy, then. Lie down, then, good dog, lie down," was all she
could think of to say, and she said it. And nobody laughed--the
situation, full of grey, mewing cats, was too serious for that.
Then Anthea, with a beating heart, tried to milk the cow. Next moment
the cow had knocked the saucer out of her hand and trampled on it with
one foot, while with the other three she had walked on a foot each of
Robert, Cyril, and Jane.
Jane burst into tears.
"Oh, how much too horrid everything is!" she cried. "Come away. Let's
go to bed and leave the horrid cats with the hateful cow. Perhaps
somebody will eat somebody else. And serve them right."
They did not go to bed, but had a shivering council in the
drawing-room, which smelt of soot--and, indeed, a heap of this lay
in the fender. There had been no fire in the room since mother went
away, and all the chairs and tables were in the wrong places, and the
chrysanthemums were dead, and the water in their pots nearly dried up.
Anthea wrapped the embroidered, woolly sofa-blanket round Jane and
herself, while Robert and Cyril had a struggle, silent and brief, but
fierce, for the larger share of the fur hearthrug.
[Illustration: "ROBERT AND CYRIL HAD A STRUGGLE FOR THE LARGER SHARE OF
THE FUR HEARTHRUG."]
"It is most truly awful," said Anthea. "And I _am_ so tired. Let's let
the cats loose."
"And the cow, perhaps?" said Cyril. "The police would find us at once.
That cow would stand at the gate and mew--I mean moo--to come in. And
so would the cats. No; I see quite well what we've got to do. We must
put them in baskets and leave them on people's doorsteps, like orphan
foundlings."
"We've got three baskets, counting mother's work one," said Jane,
brightening.
"And there are nearly two hundred cats," said Anthea, "besides the cow,
and it would have to be a different-sized basket for her. And then I
don't know how you'd carry it, and you'd never find a doorstep big
enough to put it on, except the church one, and----"
"Oh, well," said Cyril, "if you simply _make_ difficulties----"
"I'm with you," said Robert. "Don't fuss about the cow, Panther. It's
simply _got_ to stay the night, and I'm sure I've read that the cow is
a remunerating creature, and that means it will sit still and think for
hours. The carpet can take it away in the morning. And as for baskets,
we'll do them up in dusters or pillow-cases, or bath-towels. Come on,
Squirrel. You girls can be out of it, if you like."
His tone was full of contempt, but Jane and Anthea were too tired and
desperate to care; even being "out of it," which at other times they
could not have borne, now seemed quite a comfort. They snuggled down
in the sofa-blanket and Cyril threw the fur hearthrug over them.
"Ah," he said, "that's all women are fit for--to keep safe and warm
while the men do the work and run dangers and risks and things."
"I'm not," said Anthea; "you know I'm not."
But Cyril was gone.
It was warm under the blanket and the hearthrug, and Jane snuggled
up close to her sister, and Anthea cuddled Jane closely and kindly,
and in a sort of dream they heard the rise of a wave of mewing as
Robert opened the door of the nursery. They heard the booted search
for baskets in the back kitchen. They heard the side door open and
close, and they knew that each brother had gone out with at least one
cat. Anthea's last thought was that it would take at least all night
to get rid of one hundred and ninety-nine cats by twos. There would
be eighty-nine journeys of two cats each, and one cat over. "I almost
think we might keep the one cat over," said Anthea; "I don't seem to
care for cats just now, but I dare say I shall again some day." And she
fell asleep. Jane also was sleeping.
It was Jane who awoke with a start to find Anthea still asleep. As
in the act of awakening she kicked her sister, she wondered idly why
they should have gone to bed in their boots, but the next moment she
remembered where they were.
There was a sound of muffled, shuffled feet on the stairs. Like the
heroine of the classic poem, Jane "thought it was the boys," and, as
she now felt quite wide awake and not nearly so tired as before, she
crept gently from Anthea's side and followed the footsteps. They went
down into the basement. The cats, which seemed to have fallen into the
sleep of exhaustion, awoke at the sound of the approaching footsteps
and mewed piteously. Jane was at the foot of the stairs before she saw
that it was not her brothers whose coming had roused her and the cats,
but a burglar. She knew he was a burglar at once, because he wore a fur
cap and a red and black charity-check comforter, and he had no business
where he was.
If you had been stood in Jane's shoes you would no doubt have run away
in them, appealing to the police and neighbours with horrid screams.
But Jane knew better. She had read a great many nice stories about
burglars, as well as some affecting pieces of poetry, and she knew that
no burglar will ever hurt a little girl if he meets one when burgling.
Indeed, in all the cases Jane had read of his burglarishness was almost
at once forgotten in the interest he felt in the little girl's artless
prattle. So if Jane hesitated for a moment before addressing the
burglar it was only because she could not at once think of any remark
sufficiently prattling and artless to make a beginning. In the stories
and the affecting poetry the child could never speak plainly, though it
always looked old enough to in the pictures. And Jane could not make
up her mind to lisp and "talk baby," even to a burglar. And while she
hesitated he softly opened the nursery door and went in.
Jane followed--just in time to see him sit down flat on the floor,
scattering cats as a stone thrown into a pool splashes water.
She closed the door softly and stood there, still wondering whether she
_could_ bring herself to say: "What's 'oo doing here, Mithter Wobber?"
and whether any other kind of talk would do.