“You need some ‘ot chockerlit, that’s wot yer want. Not but wot meat ‘ad be better; but there, that’s where h’I’m pecooliar. ‘Never was such a gel for eatin’ meat. Lor, ‘ow yer runs my bills h’up!’ that’s wot my ma used to say abart me. She’s dead, Gawd rest ‘er bones.—Now, drink that h’up, yer little sinner. Thought h’it was summer, did yer? Went h’out to ‘ear the pretty burds. I’m only pecooliar abart meat; but, the divil take me, if you ain’t pecooliar all over.”
Cookie sat down in her favorite chair; the cane burst under her. Her legs shot up and her arms waved wildly. “‘Elp! ‘Elp me, Master Peter. For good luck’s sake!”
Peter helped her.
“H’it’s a wonder I didn’t break no bones. Bones is brittle this weather. But where’s me cushion? If that cat’s ‘ad it——”
Peter escaped and slipped into the cloak-room. Hidden behind the coats, he listened to Cookie stamping up and down, breathing threatening and slaughter against all cats—especially cats who stole cushions.
In her search for the lost cushion she began to make discoveries. “Where’s them sorsage-rolls? There was twenty. And ‘oo’s been cuttin’ the ‘am? She was allaws a wery honest cat. Can’t understand it. Never knew a cat to cut ‘am. Cats ain’t us’ally fond o’ h’apples—leastwise no cat I h’ever ‘eard of.—Shish, yer warmint! Shish! Get along wi’ yer.”
Something was thrown. There was a loud me-ow. Romance, followed by Sir Walter Scott, followed by Cookie, fled upstairs. Peter was pained that others should be blamed—even though they were only cats—for his wrongdoing. Anything like injustice hurt him. And Romance knew that he was the thief! How could he ever face her again, and how could she ever love him? If a cat could steal a cushion and cut ham, she could also take a coat. Would they blame her for that?
He was in his bedroom, finishing the postponed odds and ends of his dressing, when Kay called him. He pretended not to hear her. At last he had to answer, “Coming.” He went to her shame-faced, like a guest without a wedding-garment: he had no present.
She was kneeling up in bed in her white night-gown. The gas was lit and the floor was strewn with paper from unwrapping her discoveries.
“Merry Christmas, Peterkins. Oh, come and look! This is what Grandpa sent me from Cassingland. And this is what Aunt Jehane gave me. And this—— But why didn’t you come sooner? I’ve been calling and calling.”