OF course, Taffy didn't come to the door. But a little Welshwoman did,
and dropping a courtesy, she invited Puss and Tom Thumb to come in.
"How is Taffy?" Puss asked.
"His head is still painful," replied the little Welshwoman, "but for
that he feels quite well, thank you," and she dropped another courtesy.
"May we see him?" asked Tom Thumb.
"Well, that I don't know," she replied, "but I will enquire. Won't you
step into the sitting room?" So our two small visitors walked in and sat
down. The little canary bird hopped about in her cage and the flowers in
the green boxes in the bay-window nodded in the sunlight, as the big old
clock in the far corner ticked away the minutes.
"Come up and see Taffy," suddenly cried the voice of the little
Welshwoman.
I guess Puss had almost fallen asleep listening to the drowsy tick of
the old clock and the low twitter of the canary. Everything was so quiet
and home-like it reminded him of his old home when he had prowled about
in the garret and discovered the story book, "Puss in Boots." Yes, Puss,
Junior, felt a little bit homesick, for "no matter how humble, there's
no place like home."
Taking Tom Thumb by the hand, he followed the Welshwoman up the stairs,
where they found Taffy sitting propped up in bed, his head done up in
great bandages. But, oh, what pleasant blue eyes he had! And his red
beard, big and soft, flowed down over the counterpane, and his big
strong hand lay so quietly on his lap that Puss forgot he was Puss in
Boots, Junior, son of the Seneschal to my Lord of Carabas, and jumped
right up on the bed and nestled up to Taffy, purring away just like an
ordinary cat!
And what did Taffy do? Did he say "Scat! You'll get the counterpane all
dirty with your red-topped boots!" No, he didn't. He just stroked Puss,
Junior, with his big, kind hand, and the little Welshwoman picked up Tom
Thumb and cuddled him in her bosom, saying in a low voice, "Dearie me,
but it's nice to have friends come to see you when everybody in town is
calling my Taffy a thief."
And then a tear fell from her eye on little Tom Thumb's hat; but he
didn't care, for somehow he felt there must be some mistake, and that
Taffy wasn't to blame. And Puss felt the same way, for he kept on
purring and rubbing his nose against Taffy's big red hand.