“I know better than any one,” said Eunice, seriously. “You see, she’s my cat. Of course you wouldn’t exactly understand my feelings about her—if you never had a cat.”
Weejums was delighted to see Eunice, but howled wrathfully when, after luncheon, she was thrust into her basket and carried back to the hated boarding-house.
“It won’t be for long,” Eunice whispered in her ear, as she was banished to the laundry, instead of being allowed to spend the evening in the parlor.
The children pleaded for her, and explained to the old lady that it must have been much more painful for Weejums to fall heavily on a hard bald head, than it was for the head to catch a nice furry Weejums. But when the old lady took off her cap it really did seem, judging from the appearance of the head, as if Weejums had danced a hornpipe on it before reaching the floor.
“The cat mustn’t come into the front of the house again,” the landlady decided, and was not at all moved when Eunice said pitifully, “It’s an accident that might happen to any one who tried to lie down on a hole.”
Both cats slept in the laundry; but, as Weejums was in disgrace, Mrs. Winslow would not speak to her, and, ignoring the other half of their bed, went off and lay down gingerly on some bars of soap.
It was in the middle of the night that Mrs. Winslow waked herself with a great sneeze, and saw Weejums sniffing nervously around a crack in the floor.
“Mice?” asked Mrs. Winslow, quite forgetting that they were not on speaking terms.
“No, smoke,” answered Weejums, with contempt. “It is evident that the two sides of your nose don’t match any better than your eyes.”
“There shouldn’t be smoke at this time of night,” said Mrs. Winslow, uneasily, “should there?”